One month had passed since Oliver and The Lost Ones sought refuge in the treacherous depths of the caverns. Raindrops cascaded down, clinging to his raven-black hair and drenching his neck and brow. The leaden sky hinted at midafternoon, as they ventured forth from their makeshift camp, embarking on a perilous hunt for boar or deer within the shadows of this foreboding woodland.

Oliver blinked away the raindrops that blurred his vision. His grip tightened around the rough-hewn wooden spear, held firmly in his right hand. His gaze swept over the members of his party, five to the left and five to the right, as they moved with cautious steps. Each exhaled breath materialized in the frigid air, their grip on their weapons resolute.

He bore the weight of leadership upon his shoulders, guiding this motley crew through their trials and tests. Oliver tilted his head, catching sight of James lagging behind. The elf perched upon his horse, observing the group with unwavering eyes. This was a test, another crucible to determine if Oliver possessed the necessary skills to navigate the complexities of hunting in a group.

Raindrops trickled through the forest's canopy, providing a natural shield against the relentless downpour. The chill clung to Oliver's exposed skin as he raised his open palm, signaling the party to halt. Paint adorned his face now, a vibrant display of deep crimson and bone-white hues, meant to repel the lurking monsters and beasts that dwelled within these woods. Warpaint.

He rose from the canopy's shelter, his eyes swiftly adapting to the encroaching darkness. They scanned the animals that lay before them—boars, a gathering of five to ten pigs traversing the heart of the forest. His tongue glided across his lips, their parched state betraying their prolonged deprivation of sustenance.

Yet, his gaze did not fixate upon the smaller creatures; instead, it honed in on the portly beast that stood out amidst its kin. The weight of his spear seemed to increase as he clutched it with both hands, knuckles turning white. His eyes narrowed, attuned to the wind's subtle whisper.

For a month, the Lost Ones had sought refuge within the caverns, reduced to feeble rodents or insects sheltering from a world gone mad. They dared not venture out, nor challenge the clutches of monsters and slavers that regarded them as mere prey. Their need for sustenance extended beyond meat alone; they yearned for grains and means to cultivate their own sustenance.

Survival in this unforgiving realm proved untenable for such a large assembly of people. The tribe required a greater abundance of food to sustain themselves and thrive. Oliver turned his head toward his comrades, their faces mirroring his own, adorned with the same pigment. Men and women, fierce and loyal, their visages transformed into monstrous caricatures by the interplay of bone-white and crimson hues. Growls rumbled from their throats, their feet pounding the earth with mounting anticipation for the hunt that beckoned.

These were the individuals who had always stood by Oliver's side, ready to vie for his attention. They had fought valiantly against slavers and monsters, safeguarding what was rightfully theirs. Dozia had christened them Timorem turmae, the Terror Troops—fierce warriors yearning to fight alongside their leader. Even as twilight cast its ominous shroud, when the creatures of darkness stirred, they remained resolute. Oliver wore pants that clung to his form, eschewing the burden of boots or shoes.

Days like these demanded swift action, leaving no room for hesitation or sluggishness. The soil beneath their feet became their only companions, discarded boots a luxury they could ill afford. Thus, he relinquished them, his attire reduced to naught but pants and the glove adorning his left hand.

His body surged with a surge of adrenaline, the scars from the werewolf's attack proudly displayed as a testament to his resilience. The wounds had healed with astonishing speed, but the memories still festered like venom coursing through his veins. They called him strong for enduring such grievous injuries, and now they stood steadfastly at his side.

Just like him, they bore the mark of the Imposter. Oliver could discern the telltale inscriptions adorning their weapons, like the haunting visions he had witnessed. The paint upon their chests mirrored his own, a distinct symbol of their unity.

"Charge!"

His voice thundered through the air, the maddening frenzy of the hunt fueling his people's fervor. War cries, yelps, and screeches reverberated in his ears, the intoxicating surge of adrenaline propelling him forward.

Dirt and mud kicked up in their wake, their eyes wild and feral as they pressed on. Their screams reverberated through the sprawling forest as they advanced. Oliver could hear the symphony of spears and arrows unleashed, their deadly melodies piercing the air as the boars succumbed to their blows.

Oliver pushed onward, racing as the obese boar somehow outpaced its kin. He hurled his spear, its lethal trajectory slicing through the air, a whistling harbinger of destruction as it carved into the animal's pale, fleshy hide. A pained whine erupted from the boar as the blade cleaved through its form.

"Fuck!" he bellowed. The triumphant cries of his comrades filled the air, but he refused to bring dishonor by failing to claim his own kill.

Behind him, he could hear his fellow warriors. Pain seared through his feet as jagged stones assaulted his legs, but he pushed forward, driven by a primal determination. His body collided with the boar, his fingers snatching his knife from his belt—a delicately crafted bone blade gifted to him by Lena. He raised the blade, a glinting instrument of fate, and plunged it into the boar's thrashing body, slashing and stabbing with unyielding ferocity until its erratic movements gradually ceased.

With a final collapse, the boar fell to the side, the echo of Oliver's ragged breaths filling his ears, his heart pounding against his chest as he rolled the carcass off his body. He was about to revel in his triumph when a bloodcurdling cry sliced through the air, freezing him in his tracks.

"Help!"

His head whipped around to the clearing where they had prepared their ambush. His eyes widened in horror as he beheld the source of the scream—a girl named Rena, one of the few surviving members of the rat kin within their tribe. Her hands trembled as she clutched her spear, her body frozen in fear. A monstrous growl emanated from the creature before her—a Dire Spider, one of the abominations that haunted this twisted realm.

It loomed before them, a colossal arachnid comparable in size and weight to a fully grown horse. Its dark brown carapace gleamed, its elongated, serrated legs slicing through the air with deadly precision. Venom oozed from its gaping maw as it closed in on Rena. The Terror Troops, once formidable and brimming with power, now stood paralyzed before the true strength of a forest monster.

Instinct took hold as Oliver surged forward, propelled by an ancient primal force.

The thunderous galloping of the horse reverberated in Oliver's ears as he witnessed the creature closing in, ready to extinguish Rena's life. A surge of Imposter Power coursed through his veins, his eyes shifting to a lighter hue as the radiance escaped from his glove.

His head snapped to the side, spotting a jagged piece of rock. With a swift motion, he hurled the rock towards the spider, striking it with such force that its monstrous jaws shattered in two. Crimson blood sprayed from the wound, the creature thrashing its head in a frenzied frenzy.

One of Oliver's terror troops swiftly seized Rena, wrenching her away from the beast's grasp. Oliver retrieved his discarded spear, twirling it before delivering another throw. A triumphant smile curled upon his lips as he heard the sickening squelch of the sharpened bone piercing the spider's abdomen. However, his elation swiftly turned to fear as the arachnid spun towards him.

"Shit..." The spider charged towards him with its serrated legs in a frenetic frenzy. Oliver prepared to dive aside, evading the onslaught, lest he be ensnared by the beast's clutches. And then he saw it—a gust of wind hurtling towards the spider, severing one of its forelegs, eliciting a howl of agony.

The tempestuous whirlwind surged towards Oliver, bringing with it a bronze blade hurtling through the air. "Do it now, Oliver!"

With his right hand, Oliver caught the blade, casting aside the wooden scabbard as he gripped the weapon firmly with both hands. "You're mine!" he roared, his voice filled with determination.

With a swift motion, he swung the weapon across the fallen beast's neck, cleaving it from the base. The spider's venomous ooze consumed its own flesh, dissolving its beady dark eyes. Clicking the sword back into its scabbard, Oliver turned to James, who had arrived on horseback.

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His gaze then swept across the members of the hunting party. "Is everyone all right, Rena?"

"I'm fine, james," Rena replied, brushing off the dirt from her knees and clothing. "It caught us off guard, but we'll be fine, honestly."

"Yeah, look at the spoils we've gathered. We ambushed that boar pack, and now this spider... Once the butchers break it down, we'll have something worthwhile to trade," remarked another member of the party.

Oliver took a step forward, his foot resting on the lifeless body of the spider. The cheers and expressions of astonishment from his comrades filled the air. In this lawless corner of the world, where traders, slavers, and desperate souls sought their desires, they could find valuable commodities.

Traders from human empires would often pass through here, seeking goods that were scarce in their domains. The silk of this monstrous spider could be fashioned into luxurious leather or used to strengthen armaments.

"We could finally acquire a couple of horses. If we sell the venom and the silk..." one of the party members suggested.

"No, we won't," Oliver snapped. A heavy silence fell upon the hunting party, their gazes fixed upon him, filled with confusion.

"What do you mean, Oliver?" Rena inquired. "We could trade for medicine, salted meat for the winter, or even livestock."

"We don't need to trade for such things. Lena has taught us how to harness the power of forest herbs for medicine, and we can preserve the meat with our own hands. The horses remain strong," Oliver proclaimed, his voice carrying conviction. "I won't allow the monster to be broken down and sold to the empires—the same empires that enslaved and plundered the magic that rightfully belongs to the Demi Humans."

In that moment, the sinister glow of Oliver's great purpose became apparent. The Demi Humans were once again haunted by the dark and terrible events of centuries past. They knew what they required, but Oliver harbored his own plans. The Lost Ones remained trapped in the bronze era, much like their fellow demi human tribes.

Without progress, they couldn't forge a true home in this world or mount a formidable defense. While other tribes embraced bows and arrows, Oliver yearned to introduce crossbows and bolts.

He had delved into the annals of history, understanding the monumental impact such a change could wield. If the Lost Ones aspired to grow stronger, to confront the perils that besieged them day after day, they needed to evolve.

"That's not for you to decide, Oliver," James's voice echoed, causing Oliver to pivot and meet the boy's gaze.

"Not my decision," Oliver repeated, his hand gesturing toward the slain spider. "You know the tribal laws as well as I do, James. I vanquished the beast; I shall determine its fate. Consider yourself fortunate that I won't invoke the Declaratio feudi and claim it as my personal responsibility."

He pressed his lips together, embracing himself. "This was my kill, James. If I decree that it shall not fall into the hands of slavers or traders, my word is law."

James sneered. Both boys possessed their own advantages. Oliver aimed to introduce advanced weaponry to the Lost Ones, to teach them how to arm themselves more effectively and combat the relentless dangers that besieged them. James, a long-standing member of the tribe, recognized deep down that the Lost Ones needed more.

They required provisions for the impending winter, medicine for the ailing youth, and additional horses. The loss of one of their steeds to disease a month prior, following Oliver's confrontation with the werewolf, had dealt a blow. The traders showed little interest in grains or other goods the Lost Ones could produce, but monsters held a prosperous market.

"We shall defer to Dozia then. We'll convene a council, where we can discuss this matter in greater detail," James proposed.

"Are you challenging me here, in front of my people?" Oliver questioned, his dark blue eyes narrowing as James observed his fingers tightening around the knife. "Don't test me, James. If you seek a duel, then..."

James raised his hands in surrender. "I have no desire to fight you here, Oliver. But your arrogance is clouding your judgment. I am not trying to undermine your claim," he sighed. "However, we can leverage this situation to benefit the tribe, to acquire the supplies we desperately need."

Oliver sneered. "Then call for an assembly."

His gaze delved deeper into the forest, widening as he realized his pig had vanished. "Fuck, I thought that boar was dead."

Rena and the rest of the hunting party raised their eyes to the darkening sky, where ominous gray clouds loomed, and the rumble of thunder echoed through the air. "Let's head back," Rena suggested, her voice tinged with concern.

But Oliver shook his head adamantly. "Not yet. The boar was wounded, and I know I struck its calf. It's going to bleed out somewhere, and I won't allow the forest's creatures to claim it."

"Come on, Oliver," one of his fellow hunters, a wolfkin, pleaded. "You've done well today. You took down a spider, and that's more than enough."

"We set out to hunt boar, and that's what I intend to bring back—a trophy," Oliver declared, determination burning in his eyes.

He pushed through the crowd of his comrades, pausing briefly to address them. "You all can head back to camp. Take the spider's parts and carry the boars with you. I'll join you shortly."

Rena opened her mouth to protest, but another member of the terror troops interjected. "Come on, Oliver. This is madness. We've had a successful day, and you've proven yourself already."

Oliver simply shook his head in response, pressing deeper into the jungle, following the trail of blood. Gripping his knife tightly, he listened to the symphony of hoofbeats fading away as he knelt before the fallen boar.

"What do you want, James?" he called out, his voice a mixture of weariness and defiance. He inspected the boar, ensuring it was truly dead.

"Listen, Oliver," James began, his tone pleading. "I don't want there to be any issues between us. I know what you've done for the tribe, but I can't help but notice the changes in you... ever since the witch's trial."

Oliver chuckled, the sound tinged with bitterness. "Don't be mistaken, James. I am not the witch's pawn..."

"Then why do you tremble whenever Dozia speaks of her? Why do you refuse to see the witch who supposedly granted you such clarity?" James pressed, his concern evident.

Oliver sneered, his gaze piercing. "How about you mind your own business? I know you don't hold humans in high regard. But as an Imposter, someone who has protected and saved this tribe, how about you drop the act and tell me what you really want to say..."

"I'm warning you, Oliver," James cautioned, his voice filled with genuine worry. "This isn't a threat, but I've seen a change in you. You used to be so reserved, and I could sense the burden of the slaver's death weighing heavily on you. But now, killing seems easier, and there's a dangerous pleasure you take in battle. It's..."

"Be silent, if you know what's good for you," Oliver interrupted, his words cutting through the air like a cold gust of wind. A heavy silence enveloped them as he stared at James with unblinking eyes. "Don't forget what I am. While you were weeping and praying to your god for salvation, I was the one who saved you from those slavers."

"I was your god that day," Oliver declared, his voice dripping with a mix of authority and madness.

James slowly squinted.

"My father used to say that selling our resources to traders would be a waste, that we should harness the power of the forest to become a formidable force," Oliver continued, his voice clicking with determination. "We can use the silk to fashion superior crossbow strings, the venom as a weapon against our enemies, and the spider's shell as armor."

"But our society isn't built on war, Oliver. The Lost Ones, we don't seek to wage wars... we strive to survive and carve our own place in this world," James reasoned.

Oliver grunted, his impatience seeping through. "Are you blind, James?" he snapped. "We are surrounded by tribes that revel in war. The Storm Drummers, the Red Fires, and who knows what else. The Lost Ones are lagging behind in this game; we must evolve and claim our territory through force!"

James sneered, dismounting his horse, his anger mirroring Oliver's. "What do you think we are, Oliver?"

"James, what do you think we are!" Oliver retorted, his question thrown back at him. "The Lost Ones are feeble and insignificant. Our only advantage lies in our numbers and the diverse array of demi-humans with their unique talents and skills. The human empires and other tribes don't possess this. It is our strength, and we can use it against our foes, against our enemies."

"If you ask me what I think the Lost Ones are, I believe we're like iron. The more we're hammered, the stronger we become. We will conquer the monsters, defeat the tribes, whether human or demi, they will crumble under our might."

James stood there, his mouth agape. Oliver had changed. That once silent, timid, and kind boy who had saved them all seemed gone. In his place was a wild, feral look in his eyes, as he spoke with unwavering conviction, believing every word he uttered.

But there was something else, something James couldn't quite explain. It was like looking at a person consumed by something otherworldly, as if a dark shadow had taken over Oliver's being. It was as if his words were not his own but echoes of the beliefs ingrained in him since childhood, a desperate attempt to find truth within them.

"We are the Peredita, the lost who shall be found. We serve the Deus Imperator; his words and goals are just and right... for his will is reason enough. Those who dare oppose his will shall crumble and shatter beneath our blades," Oliver proclaimed, his voice resonating with a chilling intensity.

James's eyes widened, first from the way Oliver referred to the Deus Imperator, or rather himself, in the third person. It made James wonder if even now, after all this time, Oliver had yet to fully embrace the mantle of the Deus Imperator.

Perhaps, that was for the best. Taking on the mantle of their tribe's religion could bring destruction and chaos. After all, nearly the entire camp had succumbed to zealous loyalty towards Oliver. And it didn't help that the boy had slain monsters and displayed the power of his trumpet, captivating their hearts and minds.

But then, James's eyes quickly realized where they were. "Get down!" he snapped, his voice filled with urgency.

He slowly recognized his surroundings, his gaze fixed upon the stone brick walls adorned with vines and cracks of the fortress. "Damn it, I didn't mean to lead us this deep into the forest."

Oliver's own eyes widened as he stared at the formidable fortress walls. "What is this place, James?"

"It's a fortress, or perhaps a castle of sorts... I'm not entirely sure. Dozia mentioned that it was built during the Imposter Wars or served as a colony castle."

"Colony castle..." Oliver repeated, savoring the words on his tongue as a smile crept across his face. Ignoring James's attempt to pull him back into their hiding spot, Oliver rose, his gaze fixed on the weathered gray brick walls. They were cracked and weathered, but they stood tall and resilient. Vast spaces, watchtowers, and a potential interior awaited them.

His smile widened, a grin of pure exhilaration spreading across his face as he struggled to contain his excitement. "Yes, I've found it... a home."