Once hope takes root in sweat-soaked soil, it does not grow gently—it surges upward, wild and unrestrained, devouring every scrap of nourishment it can find.
Blackwood Fortress, that fragile "seed" newly planted upon the continent of Tranlo, was expanding with startling speed.
The smithy fires never dimmed. Berg and his ever-strengthening apprentices labored like tireless bees, turning cartloads of black iron into gleaming weapons, heavy armor, and sturdy farming tools that promised to double the land's yield.
To the south, the fields had been reborn. What was once barren now rippled with a lush, emerald sea. Vines of earth potatoes stretched greedily beneath the sun, their leaves swaying in waves of life. The air itself seemed to hum with vitality.
Everything appeared prosperous.
But beneath the brilliance of that growth, shadows were quietly taking shape.
Growth was never painless. It tore, stretched, and reshaped—like flesh splitting and bones grinding into new forms.
Colin felt those pains sooner than anyone else.
At dawn, mist still clung to the forest as the first light crept across the mountain path leading to the mine.
Barton leaned against a boulder at the entrance, yawning wide. His heavy Boar-folk armor hung loose in places, straps undone, revealing sweat-soaked cloth beneath. His massive axe stood planted beside him, its blade still stained from the cave bear he had slain the night before.
Behind him, the mine yawned like the mouth of a beast.
From deep within came the hollow rhythm of labor.
"Ding… Dang… Ding… Dang…"
The goblin slaves had begun their work.
Since the brutal suppression, they had become eerily obedient. No resistance. No sabotage. Even their infighting had nearly vanished. They moved like ghosts—entering in silence, mining in silence, returning in silence to their fenced enclosure, where they consumed just enough to survive.
They were alive—but only barely.
"Boss!" another Boar-folk called, hauling a freshly killed deer. "Extra meat today! Though the forest's getting harder to hunt."
Barton barely looked up. "Leave it."
Seeing his mood, the warrior leaned closer. "Something wrong? The goblins acting up?"
Barton scoffed. "Them? They don't even dare breathe wrong."
He kicked a stone aside, irritation flaring. "It's just… boring."
His fist struck the boulder with a dull thud.
"Listen to that noise," he muttered, gesturing toward the mine. "Sounds like children digging holes. I'm a warrior—not a babysitter for broken slaves."
Murmurs of agreement spread among the Boar-folk. They were born for battle—for impact, for blood, for the clash of strength.
Instead, they guarded silence.
"I heard the fortress is training new tactics," Barton continued bitterly. "Wolf riders, coordinated assaults… Sounds like real work."
"And us? Rotting here."
Colin had arrived unnoticed, listening from the shadows.
He didn't interrupt.
Barton wasn't wrong.
Stationing elite warriors as prison guards wasted both their strength and their spirit. Yet without them, the mine—and everything it supported—would collapse.
His gaze drifted past Barton, settling on the goblins.
Empty eyes. Hollow faces.
But beneath that emptiness, Colin saw something else.
A flicker.
Hatred.
Cold. Buried. Waiting.
It was the kind born from annihilation—the loss of home, kin, and freedom. It had not disappeared. It had only been forced underground, like magma beneath a crust of stone.
Waiting for a crack.
Waiting for a moment.
Barton and his squad were that stone.
And even stone, Colin knew, could wear down.
He left the mine and headed south.
From afar, the fields looked flawless—a shining emerald under the sun.
Up close, the illusion broke.
Scattered among the vibrant green were patches of sickly yellow. The plants there were stunted, their leaves pale and lifeless, their stems fragile.
Colin knelt, sifting the soil through his fingers.
Dry. Thin. Weak.
"Leader."
Woodhoof approached, voice strained.
He knelt among experimental plots marked by wooden signs—each testing a different mixture of fertilizers. Ash. Forest humus. Compost.
In his hands, a board filled with careful notes.
"This patch… improved slightly," he murmured. "But this one—too much ash…"
His eyes were bloodshot, his hands raw from constant work.
"I thought I understood this land," he said quietly. "I was wrong."
Colin said nothing.
Agriculture was not simple labor—it was a science built on generations of trial and failure.
And here, they had only just begun.
By the time Colin returned, the training grounds were in chaos.
"LEFT! I SAID LEFT, YOU IDIOT!"
Hask's roar shook the air.
A simple pincer maneuver had fallen apart. A Snow Giant Wolf—massive, powerful, and utterly undisciplined—had broken formation to chase a butterfly, crashing straight through allied ranks.
Fox-folk scattered. One was knocked flat.
His rider, Gray Blade, only laughed.
"Energetic, isn't he?"
"Energetic?!" the fallen archer snapped. "That beast nearly killed me!"
Tension flared.
Hask intervened, dragging both apart like unruly children.
"This is a battlefield, not a circus!" he roared.
But the problem remained.
Pride. Disunity. Immaturity.
An army that could not obey was no army at all.
That night, Colin visited his own problem.
Mo.
The silver-white wolf cub lay quietly in its pen, chewing with focused intensity.
On closer inspection, Colin's expression twitched.
It was chewing a military map.
His map.
He stepped inside.
"Let go."
Mo hesitated—then obeyed.
The parchment was ruined.
Colin sighed, then tossed it a thick bone instead. The cub eagerly accepted, crunching down with satisfaction.
Watching it, Colin didn't feel anger.
Because unlike the others, this one chose… interesting targets.
Even in chaos, there was thought.
Potential.
Leaning against the fence, Colin spread out the damaged map.
Mines ready to erupt.
Fields struggling to grow.
An army not yet forged.
A wolf that chewed strategy.
Each problem alone was manageable.
Together, they formed something far greater—a tangled web that could either strangle Blackwood Fortress…
or strengthen it.
Colin exhaled slowly, his gaze sharpening.
Growth was never smooth.
But stagnation was death.
To solve these problems—to lead, to adapt, to endure—
That was his true task.
And he was ready.