After a week of travel, they returned to the goblin village.
"Welco back, my Lord. How was your trip?"
Skitz was the first to greet him, eyes sharp as always.
"It was good. I t an old friend, if there’s a chance, I’d like to introduce you soti."
"It would be an honor, my Lord."
"Also, assign so of our stealth scouts to monitor the nearby human village. Their mission is to watch for bandit or monster activity and report imdiately if anything unusual happens."
Skitz tilted his head. "Oh? Soone important in that village?"
"There is," Lumberling said simply. "But back on track. We’ve got a lot to prepare. A large-scale war is underway, and it’s a good thing we stocked up on weapons. Gather the captains. We’re holding a eting."
"At once."
Inside the eting hall, the captains gathered around the wooden map board.
"It hasn’t been long since our last assembly," Lumberling began, "but recent developnts require a shift in our plans."
He laid out the situation: the ongoing war between the empire and the Sengolio, the growing threat of refugees, bandit migrations, and military build-ups in the cities.
"From now on, we suspend all trade unless I’ve personally confird it’s safe. This will affect our weapons, tools, and resource supply, so we’ll shift focus to self-production and skill developnt."
The captains nodded solemnly.
"No one is to approach human settlents except for the few we assign to monitor the nearby village. Understood?"
"We obey, my Lord!"
"Good. Now, let’s move on to the next phase—our expansion into the deep forest."
Lumberling unveiled a rough map, drawn with charcoal and marked with potential resource points.
"We’ll begin construction of a second base, deeper in monster territory. It won’t be easy—we’ll be fighting while we build. But once it’s complete, it’ll change everything."
The goblin village sprang to life. Supplies were gathered, captains handpicked soldiers for the expedition, and training intensified. Lumberling instructed them not to rush—the foundations needed to be strong.
One morning, at the village’s edge, smoke curled lazily from a modest forge shed. It was little more than a stone hearth, a thatch roof, and a workbench—but to Lumberling, it was a beginning.
The anvil was warm. His fingers were stained with grease and charcoal. Scattered across the table were blueprints scratched on bark sheets—gear diagrams, spring arcs, crude equations.
In front of him lay the half-assembled shell of a multi-shot crossbow.
"Too much pull force—snaps the pin. Tension’s unbalanced. This thing needs a real sear latch..." he muttered.
Prototype One shattered. Prototype Two jamd. Prototype Three dry-fired into the rafters and nearly took his ear off.
"They made it sound so damn simple in those military engineering books," he grumbled.
Back in his past life, he’d seen designs in history forums and DIY weapon channels. A few mories floated back. Concepts about compound leverage, cocking chanisms, friction.
But this... this was real. He didn’t have steel mills or power tools—only raw muscle, heat, and determination.
A voice broke his thoughts. "Boss?"
Izzek peeked into the forge, Tarnix at his side. Both wore fresh leather aprons, eyes wide at the scattered parts.
"You told us to co after lunch," Izzek said, spotting the snapped bowstring. "Uh... did sothing explode?"
Lumberling sighed. "Sort of. Co in."
He tapped the carved wooden stock. "I’ve got the shape right. But the loader system keeps binding. The string’s pulling too hard and too fast. So—we’re fixing that today."
They studied the layout—steel limbs, wooden runners, a gear segnt, sinew cables.
"Could we use thicker pins here?" Tarnix asked, pointing to the trigger lock.
"No. That’ll increase friction and slow the cycling." Lumberling reached for a jar. "But we can use this—oil from marrow pressing. Works as natural lubricant."
They worked for hours—sawing, hamring, filing. Izzek and Tarnix were still green, but they learned fast. Tarnix had a careful touch with tal shaping, while Izzek handled woodwork like he’d grown up carving bones.
Inside the Forge, Late Afternoon.
Izzek leaned over the workbench, eyes squinting at a gear the size of his palm. "Tarnix, hand the glue—carefully. This stuff sets faster than a goblin in heat."
Tarnix rolled his eyes but passed the small clay jar over. "Try not to marry your fingers this ti."
Too late. A soft squelch, followed by Izzek’s groan.
"...Tarnix."
"Yes?"
"I glued myself to the gear."
Silence.
"You what?"
"Don’t laugh. It’s stuck. I’m going to lose a finger!"
Tarnix doubled over. "You nad the damn crossbow ’Spitter’—and now it’s claiming tribute."
From across the forge, Lumberling glanced over with an eyebrow raised. "You two better not be ruining the prototype."
"Just improving our bond with it, Lord," Tarnix wheezed.
By the fourth night, a clicking sound echoed through the forge—smooth, crisp, deadly.
The prototype was complete.
The next day. They stood at the goblin village’s archer range—a row of moss-covered logs lined up as makeshift targets.
Lumberling cocked the crossbow with a rope winch. Five bolts slid into the top-loading groove, clicking into place.
He took a breath, aid, and pulled the trigger.
Thwip. Thwip-thwip. Thwip. Thunk.
The five bolts launched in rapid succession, slicing through the air. Each one struck wood with a satisfying thud—one even punched clean through the log.
Izzek and Tarnix whooped in celebration.
"It worked!" Tarnix shouted, grabbing Izzek. "It really—really worked!"
Lumberling exhaled slowly, a small grin creeping across his face.
"It’s ugly," he said, patting the stock. "But it works."
That night, under torchlight, Lumberling sat them down at the forge and walked them through every step—how to shape the limbs, tune the tension, carve the gear teeth, and test the trigger chanism safely. He made them take notes, repeat every motion, and learn through failure.
They were no longer just blacksmiths.
They were weapon-makers.
"Boss," Izzek asked one evening, holding up a completed fra, "you sure you weren’t so kind of genius in your past life?"
Lumberling smirked. "Sothing like that."
They had tools now. And soon, they’d have an arsenal.
Two weeks later, the forge was quieter—no clanging hamrs, just the scratch of clay bowls and the bubbling of thick black paste over a low fire.
The sll was sharp: burnt wood, sulfur, and sothing bitter.
Izzek sniffed and imdiately gagged. "Ugh, it stinks. Slls like gnoll’s feet."
"That ans it’s working," Lumberling replied, not looking up. He stirred the paste with a carved bone stick. "Charcoal, sulfur, saltpeter. Right mix makes smoke—fast, thick, and choking."
Tarnix held up a small clay sphere. "And this holds the stink?"
"Exactly. Fill the shell halfway. Pack it tight. Seal the top with waxed cloth and a short fuse cord."
The vice-captains moved to work, stuffing the dark powder into the hollow spheres with practiced, if clumsy, hands. Wax dripped onto the cloth as Tarnix wrapped the top, binding it with twine.
"Why not just throw firepots?" Izzek asked.
"Fire kills. Smoke confuses. Makes people panic, trip, break formation. And unlike fire, it won’t burn down our own village if the wind turns." He glanced at the small pile of completed bombs. "Besides, you can throw these indoors, underground, even into tents."
Izzek whooped. "That’s goblin sorcery right there!"
"It’s chemistry," Lumberling said, amused. "But sure—call it sorcery if it helps you rember the ratio."
And thus, the village’s first batch of stink-filled smoke bombs was born.
That afternoon, they turned their attention to the net launcher. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows over the workbench littered with rope, wood limbs, and a bent iron fra.
Lumberling held up a curved wooden arm. "This works like a giant trap. Tensioned limbs, catch trigger, weighted net. Once released, it snaps forward and launches the net."
Izzek frowned, threading iron balls into the corners. "These are heavy. Won’t fly far."
"They don’t need to," Lumberling said. "Just enough to catch two charging n—or wrap around a beast’s legs."
They mounted the arms on a wooden base, used boiled rope sinew for tension, and a simple lever to trigger the release. Tarnix secured the net into a leather sling between the arms.
"Ready?" Lumberling asked.
The vice-captains nodded.
Whump.
The net sprang forward with a burst, opening mid-air and slamming into a hay dummy. The impact knocked it over, tangling it in a ss of rope and iron weights.
The vice-captains stared, stunned.
"...Can we make a bigger one?" Izzek asked quietly.
Lumberling grinned. "Eventually."
That night, they sat around the forgefire, eating roasted root stew while the last test dummy hung tangled in the background like a captured beast.
"You two did well today," Lumberling said. "Better than well."
Izzek grinned. Tarnix tried not to smile into his bowl.
"Once we make more," Lumberling continued, "you’ll train the others. I want squads carrying smoke bombs and crossbows. Hit fast, confuse the enemy, and clean up."
"This’ll be one of our trump cards! We’ll be unstoppable! HAHAHAHA!" Izzek bood, throwing his arms up.
Lumberling chuckled. "They won’t stop the truly strong—but they’ll break lines, ruin formations, and save lives. That’s deadly enough."
Three months passed.
The construction materials for the new base were complete—but they hadn’t left yet. Training was still underway.
Lumberling and the elite team that had survived with him in the forest were now the instructors. Every day, they drilled new recruits on survival—monster habits, weak points, formations, ambush tactics.
And Lumberling didn’t neglect his own growth. He trained alone at dawn and dusk, perfecting the Pikeman’s Art, pushing toward its next level.
The forest awaited. And with every passing day, so did their future.
Outside the Command Tent, at Dusk
Aren stood alone, sharpening his spear under the low orange glow of a torch. His hands moved with practiced rhythm, but his eyes were far away.
Lumberling approached quietly. "Sothing on your mind?"
Aren hesitated, then spoke. "We’re heading into the deep woods soon. Most of our soldiers... they’ve never fought beyond the edge. The forest doesn’t forgive mistakes. What if we’re not ready?"
Lumberling nodded slowly. "We’re not. Not fully."
Aren blinked.
"But we go anyway," Lumberling continued. "Because if we wait until we’re ready, we’ll be running forever. Better to shape the forest than let it shape us."
Aren exhaled. "You always make it sound simple."
"It’s not. I’m just good at hiding how much I worry too."
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