Sowhere far from civilization, on the shadowed edge of the Blackroot Forest...
The sll of moss and wet earth thickened with every step. Twisted roots snaked along the trail like the fingers of sothing long dead. Trees towered, their leaves blotting out the afternoon sun, leaving the path dim, the air unnaturally still.
"Young Master," the old man said quietly, pausing at the treeline. His armor, dented and scorched, clinked as he turned. "We have no choice. The only path left is through this forest."
The youth behind him wrinkled his nose in disgust. Draped in tattered silks once ant for courtly halls, his once-gleaming armor dulled by ash and blood, he looked more offended than afraid. He drew a perfud kerchief to his nose and hissed, "You expect to set foot in that filthy place? Do you have any idea what creatures might live in there? Gods—what if they touch ?"
"We won’t let that happen, Young Master," the old man said with a slight bow, though there was iron in his voice. "I’ll clear the way myself if I must. But if we stay in the open, the Legate’s scouts will find us."
The young noble scowled, glaring at the thick green wall of trees as if it personally insulted him. "Tch. Useless. This entire campaign was a disaster. When we return, you’ll be held accountable for this ss."
"I understand, Young Master," the old knight said, unfazed. His hand tightened slightly around the hilt of his sword, the knuckles white, but his expression remained smooth.
Behind them, the remnants of a once-proud company staggered into formation, less than three hundred soldiers, bruised, bloodied, and broken in spirit. Their banners were torn, their eyes hollow. A defeated host, fractured from the Sengolio invasion force that once marched into the Pentaline Empire with fire and arrogance.
That fire had been quenched.
Ambushed. Routed. Shattered.
Now, to avoid the relentless pursuit of a Pentaline Legate, the broken unit had split into scattered threads, fleeing through ravines, caves, and now, this cursed woodland.
The Blackroot Forest.
No maps showed its depths. No roads cut through it. Only rumors: of beasts with too many eyes, of roots that drank blood, of whispers that drove n mad.
"Keep moving," the old knight barked to the stragglers. "Tighten ranks. Anyone who lags behind becos bait."
The soldiers didn’t argue.
They couldn’t afford to.
The noble sneered one last ti at the looming woods, then clicked his tongue. "Fine. Let’s get this over with. But rember, if I so much as sll rot, you’ll be the first to answer for it."
He stepped forward, one foot into the shadowed path.
The old knight followed in silence, eyes narrowed as the trees swallowed them whole.
...
A Field of Monsters in Silence... or Supposed Silence
The training grounds, once alive with clashing iron and stomping hooves, now buzzed with sothing stranger.
Silence.
Or at least, an attempt at it.
Rows of goblins and kobolds sat cross-legged in crooked lines beneath the late afternoon sun. Their eyes were squeezed shut—so too tight, so half-peeking. The air was thick with muffled groans, scratchy breathing, and an overwhelming sense of restlessness.
"I can’t feel my tail," one kobold whispered.
"Shut up," muttered a goblin, "I’m ascending."
A snore cut across the field.
Then soone farted.
Several opened their eyes. One goblin fell over, asleep mid-ditation. Another scratched wildly at his thigh.
"Boss! My skin itches! Is that part of the technique!?"
"No, that’s your fleas," soone hissed back.
One kobold began rocking back and forth, trying to force himself to "think of nothing." Another clutched his spear tightly, as if trying to stab his thoughts into submission.
They weren’t still.
They weren’t calm.
They were trying to be calm, which was the problem.
From his seated position at the front, Lumberling watched it all. Arms resting loosely on his knees, back straight, his breath smooth and steady.
But his expression?
Mild exasperation.
Like a schoolmaster watching a class of squirrels attempt calculus.
He stood slowly, dusting off his palms, and addressed the squirming, groaning chaos before him.
"Alright," he said, calm but firm. "I think it’s ti we take a step back."
Eyes turned toward him, so hopeful, so guilty.
"You’re all trying too hard. ditation isn’t about forcing your mind into silence. That’s like trying to punch water. The harder you try, the more it slips through your fingers."
A few scratched their heads. Gobo2 raised his hand. "So... we’re not supposed to try?"
"Exactly," Lumberling said, walking among them now, his voice carrying a quiet authority. "Which is why you need to understand this, three simple rules. morize them. Live them during ditation. Ready?"
The soldiers straightened. So nodded. Others just blinked in anticipation.
He raised a hand.
"First rule: ’I want nothing.’
For the next fifteen to thirty minutes, you don’t want food, power, evolution, or glory. You don’t even want peace. You want nothing. And when you truly want nothing... you’ll stop chasing everything."
The field went silent again, not because they understood, but because it sounded important.
"Second rule: ’I do nothing.’
You’re not here to think, or visualize, or try to breathe a certain way. You just breathe. No effort. No force. Let your breath co and go. That’s all. Do nothing."
A kobold raised a claw, confused. "But... if I do nothing, am I... doing it right?"
"Yes," Lumberling said with a faint grin. "That’s the paradox."
"Third rule: ’I am nothing.’
Let go of who you think you are. Forget your na, your strength, your pride, your sha. You are not a warrior or a failure. Not male or female. Not monster or human. You are nothing. Only then will your thoughts stop clinging to who you were."
Skitz’s grin faded into thought. Grokk’s jaw clenched slightly, but his eyes softened.
"When the ditation ends, you can beco sothing again," Lumberling continued. "But during it, you are the void."
He let the silence return.
This ti, it wasn’t so uncomfortable.
Sothing shifted.
Not entirely. Not for everyone. But enough.
Over the Next Weeks...
The mornings began the sa: a quiet assembly, a breath, and then stillness.
Or at least... the attempt.
At first, the struggle continued.
So goblins twitched constantly. Others yawned so wide it startled their neighbors. Repressed emotions began surfacing, so shook with quiet anger, others wept without understanding why.
Lumberling never scolded them.
He watched.
Corrected.
Guided.
"Don’t fight the emotions," he said to a trembling kobold one dawn. "Just watch them. Like leaves floating down a river. You don’t grab them. You don’t run from them. You observe."
.....
Gradually... things changed.
The most disciplined were the first to adapt.
Krivex, ever sharp, sat with a rigid spine and clenched jaw, but his breathing steadied by the third week.
Aren, quiet and composed, treated ditation like spear training, precise, intentional, asured.
Grokk sat like a stone. Even the birds refused to land near him. Stillness radiated from his being.
Skitz, oddly enough, was a natural, despite his chaotic energy, his laughter faded into tranquility faster than anyone expected. "Didn’t know my brain could be this quiet," he muttered once with a grin.
Even Skarn and Gobo1 began finding the rhythm, though Gobo2 continued claiming enlightennt every five minutes and then sneaking naps.
So villagers began copying the soldiers.
A few children imitated them, sitting cross-legged and giggling between breaths. Farrs joined in. Even Old Man Dan tried it, though he always fell asleep and snored like a warhorn.
Jen was among the first to embrace it fully.
She sat with surprising poise each morning, her brow serene, her breath light. A quiet glow of calm followed her for hours afterward.
Lumberling watched it all unfold from the edge of the field.
The laughter, the groaning, the tears, the monts of stillness.
A field of monsters trying to not be monsters, even just for a while.
And he couldn’t help but smile.
"A ditating monster army..." he muttered to himself, crossing his arms.
"What a damn sight."
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