The forest didn't start at the treeline. It crept in the moment Thornwatch's warmth faded behind him, when the air shifted from smelling like chimney smoke and fresh bread to wet bark, old rot, and a sharp, musky animal scent that prickled his nose.
He kept going anyway. Not fast and not reckless, just deliberate. Every step was a decision now. Noel's boots touched down heel-first, then rolled forward slow, like he was placing his weight onto glass. The first time a twig snapped under him, his whole body stiffened so hard it felt like his spine locked.
Too loud.
He exhaled through his nose, held still, and listened. Nothing rushed him. No sudden shriek. No goblin laughter. Just the forest settling back into itself, like it had noticed him, measured him, then decided he wasn't worth reacting to.
That almost made it worse.
He changed his footing after that. No more trusting leaves, they hid dead branches underneath, and dead branches betrayed you. So he searched for safe ground: damp soil that didn't crunch, patches of moss, exposed roots, stone. He began stepping on roots instead of between them, because roots were solid. They complained less.
This was necessary because the deeper he went, the quieter everything became. Not silent it never was fully silent, but the noise shifted. It dimmed, quieted down. At the forest's edge, you heard night insects, distant frogs, the casual rustle of small animals. Here? The sounds were thin. Sparse. Like the forest was holding its breath.
Noel touched the lantern at his hip. He didn't want to use it. Light meant visibility for him, but it also meant he was a moving beacon in a place full of things that hunted by instinct.
But darkness had weight. It made the trees feel closer than they were. It turned harmless branches into reaching hands and every uneven shadow into a crouching shape.
So he compromised. He clicked the lantern on for half a second, just long enough to take a mental snapshot. A slope falling slightly downhill. Two thick trunks ahead with a narrow gap between them. A carpet of fern to his left. A broken branch hanging like a hook at eye level.
Click—off.
Then he moved through the snapshot in the dark, quietly, like he was walking through a room he'd memorized.
Another few steps. Click—on. Something pale near the base of a tree. A stone? A fungus? Bone? Click—off.
He crouched, reached out, felt it. Not bone. A smooth, wet mushroom. Cold against his fingertips.
He let out a slow breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. Stop jumping at everything, dude. Easier thought than done.
His paranoia wasn't loud. It didn't scream. It whispered. What if you're already being followed? What if the only reason it's quiet is because you're the loudest thing here? What if the darkness isn't empty,just patient? Patiently waiting to pounce.
Noel shook his head once, like he could physically dislodge the thoughts. Get it together, man. You're not some noob in a horror film.
He kept moving. He tracked time the way you track pain: by noticing it, then forcing it into the background. Ten minutes became twenty. The trees thickened. The trunks widened. Older. The ground dipped deeper into a basin where fog clung low between roots, thin and silver, like breath from something sleeping.
And the smell changed again. Less plant. More life. Not the comforting kind. The sour edge of sweat. Old blood. Metal that had been held in damp hands.
Noel's ears twitched. He froze mid-step, foot hovering an inch above the ground. There. A faint scrape. Not wind. Not leaves. A deliberate sound, too controlled, too spaced out.
He lowered his foot carefully onto a root and didn't move again. His heart tried to start sprinting without him. He forced it down. Inhale. Hold. Exhale.
He looked left. Nothing. Right. Darkness layered over darkness. Ahead—only the vague shapes of trunks and hanging branches.
He clicked the lantern on inside his coat so the light wouldn't spill outward. A weak glow bled through fabric, barely enough to show his own hands. Sword grip. Dry. Not slipping. His other hand found the rope coil at his side like a reassurance he could touch.
He clicked the lantern off again. Then he waited. Three breaths. Four. Five.
The scrape came again, closer this time, then stopped, as if whatever made it had also decided to listen.
Noel felt the memory rise up like cold water: Four goblins. Blades. Yellow eyes. A cliff and the roar of a waterfall. The feeling of being hunted, of being cornered.
His fingers tightened until his knuckles hurt. Not this time, you bastards.
He took one step backward. The ground betrayed him, just slightly. A pebble rolled under his heel with a soft, stupid tick.
Noel went still so hard it hurt. And in the distance, somewhere ahead and slightly right, there was a faint sound that might've been a laugh. Not loud. Not happy. Just amused.
He didn't run. Running was what prey did. He lowered his center of gravity and moved sideways instead, slow as a shadow, using a thick trunk as cover. One step. Pause. Listen. One step. Pause.
His mind started mapping without him asking. If he had to retreat: back the way he came, but he'd lose direction in the dark. If he kept pushing forward: unknown depth, unknown monsters. If he climbed: he'd be visible against the sky. If he stayed low: safer, but slower.
He clicked the lantern on again—this time pointed down, blocked by his forearm. And he saw it. Footprints. Not animal. Not deer. Too flat. Too heel-to-toe. Bare feet or thin-wrapped soles. Multiple sets. Overlapping. Leading deeper.
A trail.
Noel stared, then swallowed. His throat felt tight for no reason. He had come here for first blood. But the forest wasn't offering him a clean duel. It was offering him a choice between ego and survival.
The darkness pressed closer, not physically, not literally, just in that way it did when you looked too long and started believing it was watching back.
Noel exhaled slowly. Okay, pivot. Not quit. Not retreat forever. Just pivot.
He didn't need to charge deeper to prove anything. Arthur's rule wasn't "be brave." It was "don't die like an idiot."
So Noel made the decision that actually mattered. He would hunt the edge of the trail, not the heart of it. He would follow it at a distance, parallel, staying in the trees, using the footprints as a guide without stepping into the same path like a beginner.
Recon first. One isolated target if it presented itself. If it didn't? He'd leave with information—and live to come back better.
Noel clicked the lantern off. Darkness returned instantly, thick and complete. But now it felt slightly less like a mouth. Slightly more like a cloak.
He shifted his feet onto solid root again, softened the placement until it made no sound, and started moving, quiet, patient, and alert, alongside the trail.
Ahead, far through the trees, there was a faint orange pulse, like firelight breathing. And somewhere near it, a voice muttered in a language he didn't understand… but the tone was clear enough. Close. Careless. Alive.
Noel lowered his head, eyes narrowed, and kept going. Tonight wasn't about being fearless. Tonight was about being smart enough to keep fear on a leash. And when the moment came, he wouldn't hesitate.
The orange pulse grew stronger the closer he crept, flickering between tree trunks in uneven bursts. Fire. Small. Low to the ground.
Noel slowed further. Not because he wanted to, but because he had to.
He lowered himself inch by inch until he was crouched, one hand resting lightly against the bark of a tree to steady himself. Rough. Damp. Real. His breathing stayed shallow, through his nose, the way Arthur had drilled into him.
Don't announce yourself to something that hasn't seen you yet, dumbass.
He edged forward until the tree trunk covered most of his body, then leaned just enough to see.
Two of them. Goblins.
The first stood closer to the fire, thin and hunched, its skin a sickly green that looked almost grey in the weak light. It held a spear loosely in one hand, the tip resting against the ground. Not ready. Not expecting anything. Its head turned lazily side to side like it was bored.
The second sat on a rock nearby, sword hanging at its side, fingers barely looped around the handle, like it was too comfortable to care.
They weren't alert. They weren't hunting. They thought they were safe.
Noel's stomach tightened. His eyes flicked around the clearing automatically. No others in sight. No movement in the trees. No shadows shifting wrong. Just two.
His hand tightened around his sword hilt. He didn't draw it. Not yet.
Distance mattered. Angle mattered. Noise mattered.
He studied the one with the spear first. Longer reach. Faster first strike. More dangerous if it reacted in time.
The one with the sword was slower. Relaxed. Sloppy. Better target.
But if the spear goblin saw, Noel stopped the thought.
He adjusted his footing silently, placing his rear foot against a root for leverage. He loosened his shoulders the way Arthur had shown him. Not tense. Tension made you slow.
His heartbeat pounded anyway. Not loud. But heavy. Real.
This was it. Not training. Not some daydream. Not just surviving. Hunting.
His grip tightened. And Noel made his decision.
Memories of the past surged up,these stupid, fucking retarded-ass goblins. I won't allow myself to be sullied again. It was humiliating. Every day suppressing that feeling of disgust, losing to goblins when I'd vowed to change. And I shall change permanently through their blood. My pride. My everything. I won't tolerate failure. I'll surpass the limits of my previous self and prove to the world I existed, and I wasn't a worm I wasn't something to be crushed.
Noel cooled his thoughts and shifted to the left, into the spear goblin's blind spot. The sword goblin would spot him immediately, but that was the plan: a perfect pounce, a perfect thrust.
A memory visited him mid-motion, as he tried to mimic what Arthur had shown so effortlessly. A thrust. Arthur had told him the art of a perfect thrust was the art of a silent thrust. No sound. No intent. No presence. A blade advancing without noise, fulfilling the very role it was forged for—born to stab, slash, and carve flesh. It existed solely for that purpose. The silent blade had advanced forward while Arthur demonstrated, saying, "Have at it, kid," while scoffing to himself that he used to do it better in his prime days.
Back to the present. That memory always made Noel smile as he recalled it. He pounced, full force into his legs, overdriving them. To his astonishment, he was far faster than he'd expected—in half a second, no, a quarter—his thrust was already piercing through the goblin's head.
The spear goblin, the one he'd worried about most, died instantly. Even Noel was too slow to fully react to his own speed. He was astonished. He smiled, his heart filling with warmth. Months of grueling effort wasn't wasted. Even though the thrust wasn't perfect—still made a noise, still had intent and presence—it was still his thrust that vanquished this vermin's life.
While he was monologuing like an idiot, the goblin with the sword finally turned around due to the noise of the body dropping. Instead of screaming like a typical anime goblin, it immediately thrust at him, not with the same technique, far worse, proving Noel's superiority.
He reacted quickly, seeing the goblin in slow motion. Movements from the time when he was scared flashed through him, back when he was running for his life. But now, this same goblin felt like a snail, well, more like a very weak person trying to punch fast with no technique. But don't get him wrong: if he stood still, he'd get punctured. He didn't want to be the next ace, no donuts for him, no sir.
So he blocked the thrust with his left, non-dominant hand, slapping the poor strike aside. Huh, Dark Souls wasn't lying, that really was possible. And then he immediately countered with a thrust attack, piercing the goblin's head immediately.
Woah, my adrenaline's through the roof. I gotta calm down. Noel took a couple minutes just breathing, steady inhales and exhales, letting the rush fade.
Yes. I did it.
I'll look at my stats after I'm home. Noel began to walk back the same steps he took, retracing his path to Thornwatch. When he entered the house, he heard Gramps's snores. "That geezer's still asleep", "haha".
Then he looked toward the kitchen. The light was on, and there was a very basic soup left over, freshly warm, like someone had made it with intent. He noticed. Noel spoke softly: "Gramps."
Tears rolled down his face. He didn't need to notice; Noel had planned on him not noticing me leaving. But Gramps, he knew. And he trusted him. He didn't stop him.
Noel sat down while he was sobbing, not through sadness, but through happiness. That someone noticed. For the first time in his life, someone noticed his effort and trusted in him. Thank you for everything, Gramps.
After the meal, he went back to his bed, staring at the ceiling.
Noel opened his panel.
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Noel Xerlectus
lvl 1
Strength:I092
Endurance:H104
Dexterity:H127→H129
Agility:I053→I054
Magic:I000→I001
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Woah 4 stats increased in one hunt?
What an amazing, fruitful night.
But now it's time to sleep.
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Outside, beyond the thin wooden walls of Thornwatch, something shifted through the forest.
A slow, dragging slither over damp leaves.
It passed the place where goblin blood still soaked into the soil and paused, its body coiling slightly in the dark. The trees stood motionless around it, but the silence grew heavier, tighter, like the forest itself was afraid to breathe. Then, just as quietly, it moved on, deeper into the dark… leaving behind the faint certainty that something had noticed.