The first hint of dawn was a knife's edge of pale, grey light slicing through the thick canopy of the forest. It wasn't a sound or a change in temperature that woke me. It was a feeling. A subtle, instinctual shift in the world, a deep, primal knowledge that the long, watchful dark was giving way to the dangers of the new day. It was a sense that had been honed over weeks of sleeping with one eye open, a built-in alarm clock forged in the fires of constant, low-level terror.
One of the many, many strange new realities of my existence in Norrath was the absence of that old, familiar, bone-deep weariness of a morning after a restless night. The System, or my Vocation, or the simple fact of being a high-level human in a world that ran on different rules, had scrubbed away the groggy, sand-in-the-eyes feeling of post-awakening exhaustion. Unless I had spent the previous day doing something truly, physically exhausting, like, say, ripping an Orc's head from its shoulders with my bare hands, I woke up with the clean, sharp clarity of a blade being drawn from its sheath. I went from zero to one hundred in the space of a single, silent breath.
I didn't climb down from the massive, ancient oak that served as my preferred sleeping spot. I dropped. It was a twenty-foot fall, a distance that would have shattered the legs of the woman I used to be. Now, it was nothing. I landed in a silent, perfect crouch, my knees bending to absorb the impact, my feet making no more sound on the damp, mossy ground than a falling leaf. The world was quiet, still wrapped in the deep, pre-dawn silence. But it was a silence full of life, a symphony of rustling leaves, chirping insects, and the distant, mournful call of a night bird I had yet to identify.
I moved through the burgeoning settlement of the Grotto, a grey ghost in the grey light. The air was thick with the scent of pine, of damp earth, and the faint, comforting smell of Leo's banked forge. The place was still asleep, the new huts and the communal longhouse dark and silent. But I was not heading for the mess hall, for the promise of hot porridge and bitter, roasted-root coffee. I was heading for the barracks.
As I approached, a figure detached itself from the shadows by the door. It was Snag, the quiet, one-eared Hobgoblin scout. He stood at attention, his spear held at a perfect, disciplined angle, his single eye sharp and alert. He had the dawn watch. When he saw me, he brought his fist to his chest in a crisp, silent salute, a gesture I had drilled into them until it was as natural as breathing. I returned the gesture with a curt nod and pushed open the heavy wooden door.
The inside of the barracks was a sudden, jarring explosion of sound and motion. The air was thick with the smell of sweat, of old leather, and of a raw, aggressive energy that was almost a physical force. In the center of the large, open room, illuminated by the flickering light of a half-dozen torches, a brutal, chaotic dance was unfolding.
My newest recruits, the fifteen goblin conscripts who had so recently sworn their lives to our cause, were being systematically, joyfully, and comprehensively dismantled.
Gnar, his massive Hobgoblin frame a terrifying silhouette against the torchlight, was a whirlwind of controlled violence. He moved among them not as a teacher, but as a force of nature. He held no weapon, only a heavy, knotted training staff of solid ironwood. He would feint, parry a clumsy spear thrust, and then his staff would be a blur, a sharp, percussive crack as it connected with a shin, a set of ribs, a helmeted head. A goblin would go down with a yelp of pain, and Gnar would already be moving, his one eye cold and analytical, assessing the next failure.
He was not alone. Gruk, the squat, powerful grumbler, was acting as the anvil to Gnar's hammer. He stood with his massive, iron-banded shield, a stolid, unmoving wall. The recruits were being forced to charge him, one by one, and one by one, they were failing. He would absorb their pathetic, clumsy attacks with a contemptuous grunt, and then his own shield would slam forward, a brutal, concussive blow that would send the goblin staggering back, dazed and disoriented, directly into the path of Gnar's waiting staff.
It was a meat grinder. A brutal, efficient, and deeply necessary process of breaking them down to their component parts so they could be rebuilt into something useful.
The sounds of it were a symphony of misery. The sharp crack of wood on bone. The dull thud of a body hitting the packed earth floor. The pained grunts, the surprised yelps, the guttural, frustrated curses of the recruits as they failed, and failed, and failed again.
And over it all, Gnar's new, resonant baritone, a voice that had once been a pathetic, gravelly rasp, now a tool of command, barking out a constant stream of brutal, unvarnished critique.
"Too slow, maggot! My broodmother, dead for ten winters, could have blocked that!" Crack. Another goblin went down.
"You call that a spear thrust? You are trying to tickle him, not kill him! Put your weight behind it! Your life depends on it!" Thud. A recruit bounced off Gruk's shield and landed on his backside.
"Your shield is not a hat! It is not a plate for your dinner! It is a wall! Get it up! Higher! Do you want to lose your other eye?!" Whack. A clumsy parry was met with a sharp rap across the knuckles that made the goblin drop his spear.
I leaned against the doorframe, my arms crossed, and I watched. A slow, cold, and deeply satisfied smile spread across my face. They were not impressed. They were not coddling the new recruits. They were forging them. They were taking the raw, worthless pig iron of their goblin nature and they were hammering it, quenching it, folding it back on itself, trying to create something that resembled steel.
I let them continue their brutal ballet for a few more minutes, savoring the controlled chaos, the efficient application of educational violence. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and fear, a perfume I had come to associate with progress. The new recruits were a mess, their movements clumsy, their faces masks of pained confusion. But they were learning. With every blow they took, with every snarled correction from Gnar, a tiny piece of their old, undisciplined nature was being chipped away, replaced by the hard, unyielding reality of the shield wall.
Finally, I pushed myself off the doorframe, my own presence a sudden, sharp note in their symphony of misery.
"Gnar."
The single word, spoken quietly but with the unmistakable edge of command, cut through the din of combat like a razor. The effect was instantaneous. Gnar, who had been in the middle of demonstrating the finer points of a debilitating leg sweep, froze. Gruk lowered his shield. The recruits, their chests heaving, their bodies a roadmap of fresh bruises, simply stopped, their eyes wide and fixed on me.
In the next instant, every Hobgoblin in the room—the six original Gutter-Guard members and the four others who had been observing from the sidelines—snapped to attention. Fists met chests in the crisp, unified salute I had drilled into them. The goblin conscripts, seeing the sudden, absolute shift in the room's power dynamic, scrambled to imitate the gesture, their own clumsy salutes a pathetic but sincere echo of their new masters. The entire barracks had gone from a chaotic scrum to a silent, disciplined military formation in the space of a single heartbeat.
I walked into the center of the room, my boots silent on the packed earth floor. I let my gaze sweep over them, my expression a mask of cool, professional assessment.
"It seems you have already gotten to work," I said, my voice calm, acknowledging their diligence without offering praise. Praise was a currency I spent sparingly. "But duty calls. We must prepare to depart."
I turned my attention to Gnar. His one eye was bright, intelligent, and filled with a fierce, unwavering loyalty. He was a magnificent tool, a perfect fusion of goblin cunning and Hobgoblin strength, and he was entirely, completely, mine.
"Send for one of the Gutter-Guard who will not be leaving with us," I commanded. "Have them fetch Torvin. He will take over the training. His methods are… less subtle than yours, but he understands the importance of breaking a man down before you can build him back up. He will beat them into something capable of standing guard while we are gone."
Gnar's lips peeled back in a grin that was all teeth. The idea of the massive, perpetually angry Berserker taking over the training clearly appealed to his sense of brutal pragmatism.
"Tell him," I continued, "that when their basic discipline is satisfactory, he is to begin the next phase. Let them begin the process of evolving. Slowly. One or two at a time. We need to manage the Biomass reserves carefully. I want a steady supply of new Hobgoblins, not a single, glorious feast that leaves us with nothing for the next month." I paused, letting the strategic implication sink in. This was no longer just about creating a warband. This was about building a sustainable military infrastructure. "Then," I concluded, my gaze locking onto his, "meet me at the main entrance. We depart soon."
Gnar nodded with a glee that was almost unprofessional, a flash of the old, savage goblin joy showing through his new, disciplined exterior. He turned and barked a series of sharp, guttural commands at his subordinates. A young Hobgoblin immediately saluted and sprinted out of the barracks, his mission clear. The rest of the Gutter-Guard began to gather their gear, their movements efficient and practiced. The conscripts were herded into a corner, their expressions a mixture of terror and a strange, dawning hope. Their ordeal at the hands of Gnar was over. Their new ordeal at the hands of Torvin was about to begin.
I did not waste any more time. My part here was done. I turned and, without a word, I simply… dissolved. I didn't walk out the door. I melted into the deep, welcoming shadows in the corner of the barracks, my Shadow Meld skill a silent, effortless whisper. The world became a muted, grey landscape of shifting shapes and ambient energy, and I flowed through it, a ghost in my own fortress, my destination already clear in my mind. I needed to see the man who had, with a few quiet words and a display of terrifying power, turned my entire world on its head. I needed to see the Scholar.
I could sense his presence, a familiar, steady hum of intellect and a deep, resonant weariness that seemed to cling to him like a second skin. He had pushed himself to the absolute limit, both magically and emotionally, and the toll it had taken on him was a palpable thing. I knew, with the certainty of a predator sensing a wounded animal, that he had fallen asleep after doing something particularly straining or, more likely, something profoundly, beautifully stupid.
I reappeared in a corner of his office, the transition from shadow to substance as seamless and silent as a thought. The room was quiet, the only sound the soft, rhythmic breathing of its occupants. The air was warm, comfortable, a stark contrast to the cold, martial atmosphere of the barracks.
My eyes adjusted instantly to the dim light. And I saw them.
Kale was asleep in the massive, fur-draped bed. He was on his back, his face, in sleep, finally free of the constant, calculating tension that defined his waking hours. He looked younger, more vulnerable, a scholar lost in a world of warriors. His breathing was deep and even, the sleep of a man utterly, completely exhausted.
And Lia was there, curled directly on top of him, a tiny, green-skinned limpet clinging to her chosen rock. Her small head was pillowed on his chest, rising and falling with his every breath. One of her hands was fisted in the fabric of his tunic, her grip tight even in sleep. Her face, usually a mask of childish mischief or solemn concentration, was relaxed, peaceful, and utterly content. She was home.
The sight was enough to bring out those strange, unfamiliar emotions again, a warmth spreading through my chest that had nothing to do with the fire in the hearth. It was a complex, tangled knot of feelings: a fierce, protective surge for the man who had become my leader, a soft, almost maternal affection for the strange little goblin-child who had adopted him, and a quiet, profound pleasure in seeing them both, for this one brief moment, at peace. His pleased face, the way his features softened in sleep when the child was near, was a sight of such rare, unguarded vulnerability that it felt like a secret I was not meant to see.
But my focus, my professional, warrior's focus, was drawn to something else. Something that lay on the workbench beside the bed, gleaming in the soft, flickering light.
The axe.
My axe.
I moved towards it, my footsteps silent on the stone floor. It was different. The raw, brutish ugliness of the Orcish forging was still there, but it had been… refined. The pitted, dark iron had been polished to a near-mirror sheen, the edge honed to a razor's sharpness. And on the flat of the blade, just below the haft, was something new.
A rune.
It was a series of elegant, flowing lines, carved into the very heart of the steel with a surgeon's precision. The lines were filled with a dark, shimmering substance that seemed to pulse with a faint, crimson light, a banked fire waiting for a breath of air to roar to life. It was a thing of terrible, undeniable beauty, a piece of art crafted for the sole purpose of deconstruction.
I reached out, my fingers hesitating for a fraction of a second before closing around the leather-wrapped haft. The moment my skin touched the weapon, the world exploded into a silent, brilliant flash of blue light. The System, the great, silent arbiter, was speaking to me.
[New Item Detected: Runic Greataxe of Cleaving (Superior)]
[Quality: Superior]
[Properties: High Carbon Content. Latent Magical Affinity (Awakened). Durable.]
[Enchantment: Rune of Cleaving (Adept)]
[Effect: Upon activation by the wielder's will, the weapon is wreathed in a field of disruptive energy, allowing it to ignore 35% of a target's physical armor for a short duration. Effectiveness scales with wielder's Strength.]
[Activation Cost: 20 Mana]
[Sustain Cost: 5 Mana per swing]
[Inscription Quality: Masterful. The rune is perfectly integrated with the weapon's inherent magical nature, resulting in a highly efficient and stable enchantment.]
[Inscribed by: Kale Lucas, the Blessed One, Rune Scribe (Proficient)]
I stared at the flood of information, my mind struggling to process the sheer, breathtaking audacity of what he had done. 35% armor penetration. It was a game-changer. It was a key that could unlock the heaviest plate, a solution to the problem of brutish, high-vitality enemies like the Orcs. He had taken my simple, brutal tool and he had turned it into a legend.
A new notification appeared, this one a simple, direct question from the System.
[The weapon has been attuned to you by the Rune Scribe. Do you wish to bind this item to your soul? Binding an item makes it impossible for others to wield effectively and allows it to be summoned to your hand from a short distance. This process is permanent.]
[ (Y/N) ]
I looked from the axe in my hand to the sleeping man in the bed. He had spent the last of his strength, the last of his precious mana, not on himself, not on his own defenses, but on this. On me. He had forged a weapon for his weapon.
My hand tightened on the haft. The answer was not a thought. It was an instinct. A certainty.
Yes.