Weeks turned into months.
Lumberling lived in isolation, not of distance, but of focus. The world moved around him: crops were harvested, goblins trained, seasons shifted. But to him, it was all a blur, a passing haze he no longer paid attention to.
He had turned inward.
No meetings. No speeches. No plans.
Only breath. Discipline. And the war within.
He no longer tracked the days. Time had become a rhythm of breath and heartbeat, of sunlight through leaves and the weight of his spear in hand.
He knew one truth, and it swallowed everything else:
Control.
Control over the chaos in his mind. Over the hunger in his blood. Over the fragments of foreign instincts that whispered in his sleep.
Every moment was a silent vow: Master yourself. Or be mastered.
And beneath that vow, a second fire smoldered, quiet, but relentless:
Grow stronger.
Not just in body. But in will. In identity. In understanding.
