The forest felt different beyond the familiar paths.
The trees stood farther apart, their trunks scarred by old marks—crude cuts, broken bark, signs of careless movement. The air carried a faint, unpleasant scent. Smoke. Oil. Rotting food.
Cale noticed it immediately.
"They don't belong here," he whispered.
Fang slowed his pace, massive paws sinking soundlessly into the earth. His flame-red fur dimmed instinctively, blending with the shadows beneath the canopy.
Correct, Fang's voice echoed calmly within Cale's mind.
This area has been disturbed repeatedly. Poorly. Carelessly.
They reached a ridge overlooking a shallow clearing.
Below them stood a crude camp.
Wooden huts barely holding together, stitched from planks, bones, and torn cloth. A fire pit burned in the center, surrounded by misshapen figures with greenish skin and hunched backs. Goblins.
At least twelve.
Some argued loudly. Others sharpened rusted blades. One dragged a sack that… moved.
Cale's jaw tightened.
"They're armed," he said. "But sloppy."
Observation is good, Fang replied.
But do not let contempt dull your focus.
From a distance, the goblins looked almost comical.
Up close, they were anything but.
They were short—rarely reaching the height of a human child—but their bodies were thick and twisted, hunched forward like malformed trolls. Their skin ranged from dull green to sickly yellow, scarred by old cuts and burns. Long arms dragged close to the ground, fingers ending in dirty, claw-like nails.
Their faces were the worst part.
Wide mouths filled with uneven, jagged teeth. Flattened noses. Eyes too large for their skulls, glinting with dull cunning rather than intelligence. In a cruel way, they resembled mutated fair folk—what elves might become if stripped of beauty, grace, and purpose.
"They don't have mana," Cale whispered.
None worth sensing, Fang confirmed.
Goblins possess no innate magic. No blessings. No affinity.
Yet they were armed.
Some carried crude wooden clubs, reinforced with nails or bone shards. Others wielded weapons scavenged from battlefields—rusted swords missing chunks of steel, bent spears, broken shields strapped to their arms with rope. Nothing was maintained properly, but everything was dangerous in numbers.
"They steal," Cale said quietly.
They scavenge, Fang corrected.
From corpses. From villages. From travelers who never make it home.
One goblin laughed as it swung its club, striking another for no reason at all. The others jeered, finding amusement in pain.
"They don't build," Cale continued. "They just take."
And destroy, Fang added.
Without ambition. Without growth. Without future.
Cale felt his chest tighten.
These were not misunderstood creatures.
They were not survivors forced into desperation.
They were parasites—living only to consume what others created.
And that realization made the silence heavier than before.
He felt it then — not fear, but something heavier.
Responsibility.
"Fang," he asked quietly, "if we attack them… is that wrong?"
Fang did not answer immediately.
Instead, he guided Cale's gaze to the camp.
Tell me, Fang said, what is their purpose?
Cale watched more closely.
The way the goblins argued over scraps.
The way one kicked another for amusement.
The way they laughed when the sack whimpered.
"They live to take," Cale said slowly. "They don't build. They don't protect. They don't even care for their own."
Correct.
Cale swallowed.
"But… killing them—"
Ending a threat is not murder, Fang said firmly.
Taking life for pleasure is cruelty. Taking life to stop cruelty… is choice.
Silence stretched between them.
Cale clenched his fists.
"Will this change me?" he asked.
Fang lowered his massive head until they were eye level.
It will define you, he replied.
If you run, it will define you as well.
Cale exhaled slowly.
Then he nodded.
"Teach me," he said.
Fang's eyes burned brighter.
Very well, he answered.
First lesson: you do not charge.
The forest seemed to hold its breath.
Below them, unaware, the goblins laughed.
And somewhere deep within Atlas, a quiet threshold was about to be crossed.
Fang's massive body lowered slightly, muscles tightening beneath his fur.
Observe first, he instructed.
Predators that rush die first.
Cale swallowed and forced his breathing to slow.
He followed Fang's gaze.
The goblins were scattered.
No formation.
No sentries posted properly.
Two near the fire.
Three arguing by the huts.
One standing apart—watching the trees, but poorly.
"They don't expect resistance," Cale whispered.
Correct, Fang replied.
Which means they rely on noise and numbers. Take those away.
Fang shifted silently to the right, moving through brush that would have betrayed any human. Cale dismounted carefully, his feet touching the ground without a sound. Fang nudged him once—gentle, deliberate.
Stay behind me.
Strike only when I open a path.
Cale nodded.
Fang moved first.
Not with a roar.
With absence.
One moment the goblin lookout was there—scratching its neck, half-asleep.
The next, Fang's jaws closed around its throat.
No fire.
No wind.
Just pressure.
The goblin collapsed without a sound.
Cale's heart hammered.
Don't look away, Fang said calmly.
You must see what happens when choices are made.
A second goblin noticed the body.
It opened its mouth.
Fang exhaled.
A compressed burst of heat—not flame, not explosion—hit the goblin square in the chest. The force slammed it into a tree with a dull crack. It slid down, unmoving.
The camp erupted.
Shouts.
Weapons grabbed.
Chaos.
Now.
Cale moved.
He didn't charge.
He flanked.
He remembered Fang's lessons—angle, footing, timing. A goblin rushed him, swinging a club wildly. Cale stepped inside the arc, heart screaming, and struck the wrist.
The club fell.
The goblin stared—confused.
Cale hesitated.
Too long, Fang warned.
The goblin lunged.
Cale reacted.
Steel met flesh.
The blade sank shallow but true. The goblin gasped, stumbled, and collapsed.
Cale froze.
The world narrowed to sound.
Breathing.
His own.
I— I did it, he thought.
Good, Fang said firmly.
Now keep moving.
Two more goblins rushed him together.
Cale backed toward Fang instinctively.
Wrong, Fang corrected.
Trust your space.
Fang slammed into one goblin with his shoulder, sending it flying. Cale turned, slashed low, and felt resistance—then release.
Blood hit the ground.
The remaining goblins faltered.
Fear spread faster than rage.
"They're breaking," Cale said.
Yes, Fang replied.
Predators without purpose scatter.
One tried to run.
Fang let it.
A lesson is not a massacre.
Silence fell slowly.
Bodies lay still.
The fire crackled.
Cale stood shaking, sword lowered.
He waited for nausea.
For panic.
It didn't come.
Instead, there was a heavy stillness.
You did not kill for pleasure, Fang said.
You acted to stop harm.
Cale nodded slowly.
Then his eyes drifted back to the sack near the fire.
It moved.
Cale's jaw tightened.
"…Fang," he said quietly. "Now?"
Fang's gaze hardened.
Now.
Cale approached the sack slowly.
It lay near the dying fire, stained with dirt and dark patches that he refused to examine too closely. The movement inside was weak now—uneven. Exhausted.
He knelt.
"It's okay," Cale said quietly, even before opening it. "It's over now."
His fingers loosened the rope.
The sack fell open.
A small figure tumbled out.
A boy.
Not human.
Shorter than Cale, with ash-brown skin and faintly pointed ears. Small horns curved just above his temples—not sharp, not threatening. His clothes were torn, dirty, soaked through with sweat and fear.
Demihuman.
The boy scrambled backward the moment he saw the surroundings.
The bodies.
The blood.
He froze, eyes wide, breath hitching.
"No—no—please—" he whispered, voice breaking. "I didn't— I didn't do anything—"
Cale reacted instantly.
He sheathed his sword.
Then he lowered himself to the ground, sitting cross-legged in front of the boy.
"It's okay," Cale repeated, gently. "They're gone. They won't hurt you anymore."
The boy's eyes flicked to Fang.
The Inferno Wolf lay nearby, massive, silent—watching.
The fear almost overwhelmed him.
Cale followed his gaze.
"It's alright," he said quickly. "He won't hurt you. Fang protects people."
The boy hesitated.
Cale removed his cloak and wrapped it around the boy's shoulders.
"You're safe now," he said. "I promise."
Something in his voice—steady, honest—broke through the fear.
The boy's shoulders sagged.
Tears came next.
Silent at first. Then shaking.
Cale waited.
When the sobbing finally eased, he spoke again.
"My name is Cale," he said softly. "What's yours?"
"…Alec," the boy whispered.
"Where are you from, Alec?"
"I—I got lost," Alec said, rubbing his eyes. "I went into the forest to look for berries. Then… they grabbed me."
His hands clenched in the cloak.
"They said they'd sell me. Or eat me."
Cale's jaw tightened.
"Do you live nearby?" he asked.
Alec nodded weakly. "There's a village. Not far. Past the old stone markers."
Fang's ears twitched.
I know that place, Fang said.
A demihuman settlement. Small. Defensive. They trade with humans sometimes.
Cale exhaled slowly.
"We'll take you home," he said without hesitation.
Alec looked up at him in disbelief.
"R-really?"
"Yes," Cale replied. "That comes first."
Fang inclined his head.
It is the correct choice.
They didn't reach the village before nightfall.
The forest grew darker, denser. Shadows stretched unnaturally long between the trees.
Fang stopped.
We camp here, he decided.
Traveling tired invites mistakes.
They made camp quickly.
A small fire.
Simple food.
A blanket.
Alec ate quietly, exhaustion overtaking fear. Before long, he was asleep—wrapped in cloth, curled near the warmth of the fire.
His head rested against Fang's thick fur.
Cale sat beside him, back leaning against Fang's side.
For a while, neither spoke.
The fire crackled softly.
Then—
Your body feels different, Fang observed.
Cale nodded.
"I noticed it too."
They focused inward.
Numbers surfaced—not as glowing windows, but as understanding.
Strength.
Reflexes.
Endurance.
All higher.
Higher than before the camp.
Higher than before the fight.
"…Even yours increased," Cale said quietly.
Yes, Fang replied.
Our contract shares more than thoughts.
Experience resonates.
Cale let that sink in.
"So… your idea worked."
Field training always does, Fang said.
If the student survives it.
Cale gave a small, tired smile.
Then his expression changed.
The firelight flickered.
"I killed someone today," he said.
Fang did not answer immediately.
The silence was deliberate.
Cale stared at his hands.
"I thought I'd feel sick," he admitted. "Or scared. Or proud."
He shook his head.
"I feel… clear."
Fang lowered his head slightly, resting it closer to Cale.
That is because you did not kill to prove something, Fang said.
You acted to stop harm.
Cale swallowed.
"But it still happened."
Yes.
And it will shape you.
Cale closed his eyes.
"I learned that training isn't enough," he said slowly.
"That watching isn't enough."
He looked at Alec.
"If I had hesitated longer… he might still be in that sack."
Fang's voice softened.
Understanding consequence is the first step to wisdom.
Cale breathed in.
Then out.
"I don't regret it," he said quietly. "But I won't forget it either."
Good, Fang replied.
That balance is rare.
The fire burned lower.
Alec slept peacefully.
Above them, the forest watched.
And somewhere deep within Atlas, something old and unseen took note—
A child had crossed his first true threshold.
And he had not looked away.