Oliver perched upon his weathered tree stump, his gaze fixed upon the labyrinth of towering trees. The shadows deepened in his dark blue eyes, reflecting the weight of his contemplation. Restless, his hands hung limply at his sides, unable to ease the turbulence within his mind.

His father, were he present, would have dismissed their actions as foolishness, a grave misstep. The old man would have scrutinized them, exposing their folly in seeking salvation through the treacherous hands of corrupt traders, likely in league with the Slavers. They chose to huddle in those squalid caves, like rats scurrying in the darkness, oblivious to the true enemies that lurked beyond, monstrous and insidious.

A scowl etched its way across Oliver's face, for he knew his father would have branded him a disappointment, a weakling for not wresting control from Dozia's grasp. But he merely shook his head, a silent scoff at the thought. They were wrong—there were indeed two options—but Oliver possessed a certainty that eluded the Lost Ones.

His mind replayed the events of the first raid on the slavers, the awakening that altered everything, when Dozia and the Lost Ones fell into the clutches of their captors. Like those war games he used to play with his father, Oliver's thoughts whirred into action, weaving together the disparate fragments of knowledge he possessed.

Their settlement occupied a vast clearing, vulnerable without natural defenses, a feeble hope of eluding monsters and other lurking beasts by the flickering light of their fires and the sheer force of numbers. No walls guarded them, no traps ensnared their foes—only the mana stones stood as feeble deterrents against the encroachment of malevolent creatures.

Yet humans faced no such hindrances. They descended upon them with flaming arrows. No, Oliver shook his head vehemently, recalling the scene with vivid clarity. Not a single arrowhead found its mark that day. He would know, for he had been dispatched with a party to salvage any salvageable gear or equipment. But the presence of torches hinted at a more sinister truth.

The slavers possessed knowledge, intimate knowledge of the Lost Ones' slumbering habits, striking under the cloak of night. They brandished their torches, igniting the tents, sowing chaos and terror amidst the ranks of the Lost Ones, disorienting and disorganizing them.

Oliver's fingers raked through his tousled locks of raven-black hair. His narrowed eyes pierced the veil of his own thoughts, realizing that he was only half-right, while also being half-wrong. Supplies undeniably held importance, but what the Lost Ones truly needed was a genuine home—a sanctuary for which one would fight, even die.

The slavers would require specialized equipment to scale formidable walls, and those very walls would serve as a bulwark against the encroaching monsters. The Lost Ones, an amalgamation of demi-human races, would at long last secure a permanent abode—a place where they could etch out their own domain in this vast world.

A sneer twisted Oliver's lips, a mocking derision. How long, he wondered, would they remain imprisoned within these confines?

His head jerked sharply at the sound of Dozia's measured approach. Her shoulder-length tresses now bundled haphazardly in a tousled ponytail, strands and wisps dancing on the frigid breeze. "Ollie," she called, her voice carrying a trace of smoothness, an attempt to coax. "Come now, it's bitter cold out here. Let's return to the shelter."

Oliver's sneer deepened, and he turned away from her, his gaze

fixed once again upon the forest's edge. She sighed, her breath a wistful exhalation. "Do not be obstinate, Oliver. The council and our people have spoken—the decision to sell the supplies will bring respite and succor to many."

She shook her head, a slow, mournful motion, as she drew closer to his side. "I am proud of you, Oliver," she spoke softly, her words laced with a touch of sadness. "You've done a commendable thing today. The spider's carcass will fetch a handsome price in the market."

Oliver's head shook vehemently. "No, that's not what I wanted. We could have used the spider to arm ourselves with better gear. We could have fought and..."

"What then, Ollie?" Dozia interrupted, her voice edged with a mix of concern and reason. "We know nothing of the orc numbers. It could be five, or it could be over a hundred. Even with your skills, even with our numbers, who knows how many of us would have perished?"

A sneer curled on Oliver's lips. "My father once told me that to attain something of true value in this world, sacrifices must be made."

Dozia grabbed his arm, her eyes locking onto his. "Are you truly willing to bear the weight of that guilt?" Her finger pressed against his chest. "Do you want to carry it? Sending our people to their deaths? Because if we engage in war with the orcs, this will be our doing, not theirs."

"You told me yourself, Dozia, that they are monsters," Oliver retorted, his voice tinged with defiance. "There would be no guilt in purging an infestation from our lands."

Dozia shook her head, her eyes filled with sadness. "Don't lecture me, Oliver. Yes, the orcs are monsters, but to rid ourselves of an orc infestation, many lives may be lost. Are you prepared to bear that burden?"

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Oliver stared at her, his expression inscrutable, offering no immediate response. "We must leave, Dozia," he finally declared, his gaze unwavering. "You're not a fool. We cannot remain confined within those caverns for years, bringing our children into a life of darkness. I would rather die standing on my feet than spend a single moment in those damned caves."

"What do you propose, then?" Dozia shot back. "Do we cast our lives away into the great unknown?"

"I've told you before, with strategy and careful planning, we can..."

"But people will still die," Dozia interjected, her voice carrying through the forest, her breath heavy with emotion. She sighed, clearing her throat. "I know you've done so much for the tribe. Saving us, killing the werewolf, improving morale. The medicine we can buy might save lives in the future..."

Oliver sneered, turning away from her, redirecting his attention to the forest's edge. "You've changed, Oliver," she said softly, her concern etched in her voice.

"I've grown," he replied tersely.

She shook her head, her eyes filled with worry. "No, I don't see growth. I worry about you."

Oliver let out a dry, humorless laugh. "Worry about yourself, Dozia."

"Truly, with the way you've been acting, I am worried about you."

She sighed. "You've taken ten members under your wing. Carrying all these weapons, training them fiercely. It's as if you're itching for a fight, eager to start a war. And I'm just afraid that you don't comprehend the consequences that await us."

"My Terror Militrum," Oliver stated, his voice firm, "they are the warriors we need to push back against this world."

Dozia sneered, her voice dripping with contempt. "Terror troops, they worship the Deus Imperator... they hang on your every word, as if it were divine command."

"I'm training them to function as a cohesive unit," Oliver responded, his voice resolute. "That was my father's way—to mold ordinary men into efficient machines who not only follow orders, but can lead and inspire their comrades. That's how we'll emerge victorious."

A pregnant silence enveloped them, Dozia's eyes widened as she struggled to comprehend the transformation unfolding before her. She remembered how early Oliver would rise, disappearing into the caverns, gently rousing Rena and the others from their slumber. They would venture out on monster hunts, but not in the same manner as the others who hunted boar or wild beasts. Their methods were strange, foreign to the tribe. They would take to the trees, descending upon their prey with sharpened spears. Instead of the traditional approach of attacking one at a time, they would encircle, ambush, and strike before the creature could react.

Nets, spike traps, tripwires—Oliver had imparted the esoteric arts of employing such tools to trigger precise mechanisms or to sense the presence of an enemy. Unfamiliar terms like "bottlenecks" and "envelopments" peppered their discussions before an assault. Plans were meticulously etched into the ground, seemingly inconsequential but indicative of Oliver's tireless preparation—for any eventuality.

For instance, if Rena were injured, Darek would seamlessly assume command. Countless strategies, maneuvers, and tactics were devised to overcome stronger adversaries. Surrounding their foe, prodding and jabbing with spears, while keeping the beast at bay, beyond its reach.

That was merely one of the many strategies Oliver had devised and eagerly shared his wisdom about. Dozia confessed that she had absorbed his teachings, only to be met with a disconcerting silence. "I train them to function independently," he eventually explained. "I can't always be their leader; that would be a vulnerability. My father would..."

"Why do you keep invoking your father?" Dozia interjected, her voice tinged with frustration.

"What?" Oliver seemed taken aback.

She sighed wearily. "Every time you do something like this, you invoke your father's words or beliefs. It's unsettling, Oliver. As if you believe that because your father said something, it automatically makes it right."

Oliver shook his head. "My father possessed wisdom. It's the reason I survived the trial. Without him, I..."

"I also recall the Witch telling me that your father was a monster, that you regarded him as an evil bastard," Dozia countered. "What changed?"

Oliver sneered. "You should tread carefully with your words right now. My father had his flaws, but he..."

"Why did he teach you all this?" Dozia pressed on. "I've heard the legends, the tales of your origins. Yes, I know your world was harsh, but I've also heard stories of how Imposters lead relatively comfortable lives. Why would a father impart such knowledge and skills to his son?"

"To prepare me," Oliver responded, his voice tinged with a mixture of determination and lingering pain.

Dozia shook her head, her voice tinged with concern. "No, Oliver. I believe you're seeking meaning in your father's... cruelty," she uttered, but Oliver swiftly spun away from her.

"Enough," he snapped, his tone sharp. "My father may not have been the best man, but he taught me valuable lessons."

"Lessons of battle, of taking down your enemies. Come on, Oliver. Even my own father, a respected chieftain among our tribe, didn't impart knowledge the way your father did. Your father left a mark on you, but it wasn't a good one. It created someone with the skills to fight, but I can't help but feel..."

She paused, shaking her head in disbelief. "I can't help but feel that you're searching for a reason, an explanation for why your father treated you the way he did. It's just hindsight, Oliver. No Imposter could have predicted what was in store for them. It was a twist of fate that your father taught you these skills, that he subjected you to such hardships..."

"But it worked, didn't it," he interjected, his voice laced with defiance. "Enough of this, Dozia. I am my own person, and my father's shadow does not loom over me. I embrace his lessons, and I will triumph with them."

She sneered, her frustration palpable. "That's utter nonsense, Oliver. All I see is a young boy, whose father was a despicable man. And just because a few things aligned, you choose either to evade the truth... because you're too afraid to confront yourself."

He turned his head away, rising from his seat as he started walking away.

"Where are you going?" she called out, her voice filled with concern.

He didn't even bother to face her. "Away from you!"

With those bitter words hanging in the air, he descended down the mountain. His gaze fixed forward, Dozia may have assumed he needed a solitary stroll to regain his composure, but little did she know...

That his own eyes were still fixated on the haunting memories within those four stone walls.