They didn't wait for consensus.
Mark and Carl were already gearing up when the others realized the decision had been made. Leather armour settled onto shoulders and chests, adjusting as it always did now—quiet, deliberate, like it understood purpose. Straps tightened themselves. Plates shifted to cover arteries without restricting movement. Spears were checked for cracks. Axe heads were tested with short, brutal swings.
Thomas strung his bow and tested the draw once, twice, the string humming softly in the still morning air. The sound carried farther than it should have. Mark noticed. Filed it away.
"We move fast," Mark said. "In, pressure, out. We don't chase."
Carl nodded. "And we don't get surrounded."
Thomas stepped forward without hesitation. "I'm coming."
Mark looked at him for a long moment, weighing reach, discipline, how the boy's feet sat naturally on uneven ground. Then he nodded once. "You stay on my left. You shoot past me, not through me."
Jethro cleared his throat.
"I'm coming too."
Four heads turned.
Carl opened his mouth. Mark raised a hand.
"Why?" Mark asked.
Jethro swallowed, but his eyes were steady. "Because I notice things. Patterns. Behavior. How many, how they move, what they react to. You don't just want to kill them—you want to understand them. If we don't, this gets worse."
Silence stretched.
Mark finally nodded. "You stay behind us. You don't engage."
Jethro nodded immediately. "Agreed."
Emily met his eyes from the doorway. She didn't smile. She didn't argue.
She just said, "Pay attention to how it feels."
Jethro didn't know what she meant.
He would.
---
They entered the treeline less than half a mile from the farm.
The woods felt tighter than before. Closer. Branches snagged armour straps that should have slid free. Sounds didn't carry properly—footsteps died too fast, voices felt swallowed. Leaves shifted without wind. Soil felt soft in the wrong places, compacted in others, as if the ground itself had been walked hard and often.
Thomas stopped first.
Mark saw it instantly in the way the boy froze, bow half-raised, shoulders squared but not tense.
Before Mark could speak, Jethro inhaled sharply.
"Front-left," Jethro said. "High. And… right flank. They're already wide."
Mark snapped his gaze to him.
Thomas nodded a half-second later. "He's right."
Then the goblins moved.
They didn't rush.
They poured out.
From behind trees. From shallow pits hidden under leaf cover. From root tangles that should not have held bodies. Small, green shapes with too many teeth and bright, feral eyes. Crude blades of stone and bone. Spears bound with sinew. Slings already spinning.
There were far more than expected.
Carl swore softly. "We misjudged numbers."
"No," Jethro said, voice tight. "They let us come in. This is a pull."
The goblins screamed.
Not fear.
Challenge.
"Stones first," Jethro snapped. "Brace—then rush!"
Rocks whistled through the air. One clipped Mark's shoulder hard enough to stagger him. Another cracked against Carl's helm, ringing like a bell.
"Line!" Jethro shouted. "Two forward—don't chase!"
Mark and Carl moved without thinking, boots digging in, spears thrusting in disciplined rhythm. The first goblin took Mark's spear through the throat. It collapsed into dust before it finished falling, coating his hands and face in hot grit that burned his eyes.
Another replaced it instantly.
"Left pressure building!" Jethro barked.
Thomas loosed arrows in smooth, practiced motions—each shot a clean kill. One through an eye. One through a knee that dropped a goblin screaming before it dissolved. Arrows punched through flesh and bone, bodies crumbling to dust around the shafts as they passed through.
Too many.
They came in waves.
A goblin vaulted over a fallen log and landed on Mark's spear shaft, scrambling up it like a spider.
"Drop it!" Jethro yelled.
Mark released the weapon instantly, drew his knife, and drove it up under the creature's jaw. Dust exploded outward, sticking to sweat and blood alike.
"Carl—rear-left! They're climbing the deadfall!"
Carl's axe rose and fell, splitting a goblin from shoulder to hip. Another crawled over its dissolving body, shrieking, blade sawing at Carl's thigh until Carl crushed its skull with the axe's poll.
Blood sprayed—dark, hot, and real—before turning to ash midair.
Jethro backed away, heart hammering.
They're herding us.
He felt it now—not as thought, but as flow. Pressure vectors. Lines of intent converging.
"They're funneling!" Jethro shouted. "Ravine behind us—don't give ground!"
Too late.
A goblin slammed into Thomas's side, knocking him off balance. The bow went flying.
"Thomas down!" Jethro called instantly. "Mark, push! Carl, anchor!"
Thomas hit the ground hard, breath punched from his lungs. He rolled as a blade flashed where his head had been, came up with a knife instead of his bow, slashing wildly.
He opened a goblin's belly. Guts spilled—then turned to dust.
Mark roared, driving forward, snapping a spear up from the ground and impaling another goblin through the chest. But the line buckled as three bodies threw themselves at him at once.
Carl took a spear through the shoulder.
"Hold!" Jethro shouted. "They're overcommitting—hold!"
Carl snarled and kept moving, wrenching the weapon free and using it to stab its owner in the face.
A goblin broke through.
It lunged straight at Jethro.
Something inside him snapped.
Not panic.
Pressure.
The battlefield rearranged itself.
Not visually—structurally. Every movement carried weight and direction. Momentum traced lines through the air. Intent glowed.
Vectors.
Jethro raised his hands instinctively.
"Contact—stop!" he shouted, more command than plea.
The goblin froze mid-leap.
Not stopped.
Pinned.
Its limbs jerked, straining against something invisible. Blood ran from its nose and ears as its body tried to obey forces it no longer understood.
Jethro stared, breath hitching.
"I—" he whispered. "I didn't—"
"Do it!" he shouted at himself. "End it!"
His fingers clenched.
The goblin folded in on itself with a wet, compressing crack. Bone shattered inward. Organs burst. The body imploded—then burst into dust that sprayed across the ravine wall.
Everything went silent for half a heartbeat.
Then the goblins hesitated.
Jethro felt it clearly now. He wasn't just moving things—he was reading the field.
"Right flank collapsing," he gasped. "They're scared. Push now!"
He thrust one hand sideways.
A spear ripped from a goblin's hands and flew across the clearing, slamming another creature into a tree hard enough to pulp both bodies. Dust rained down like gray snow.
"Mark—advance three steps! Carl—left hook!"
They moved exactly as called.
The ravine edge shifted as Jethro focused, roots tearing loose, deadfall sliding. Goblins lost footing, tumbling into each other in shrieking heaps.
"Thomas—now!" Jethro shouted.
Thomas staggered upright, blood running from his scalp. He snatched his bow and resumed firing at point-blank range. Arrows punched through skulls. Carl surged forward, axe rising and falling, every blow final.
The goblins broke.
Not all at once—but decisively.
"Don't chase!" Jethro snapped. "Let them run!"
Fear replaced coordination. They scattered, shrieking, abandoning fallen gear, scrambling into holes, dragging wounded that disintegrated in their hands.
One tried to flee past Jethro.
He didn't think.
"Denied."
He pushed.
The creature slammed into the ground hard enough to crater the soil, then dissolved instantly.
Silence returned.
Heavy.
Absolute.
Jethro dropped to his knees, retching, hands shaking violently, blood seeping from his nose.
Mark was there in seconds, gripping his shoulders. "Stay with me."
"I didn't mean to—" Jethro gasped. "I didn't even know—"
"You didn't guess," Carl said, blood streaking his arm, axe hanging loose in his grip. "You commanded."
Thomas bent over, hands on his knees, staring at the piles of loot scattered across the clearing—clean weapons amid carnage, leather armour resetting itself beside fresh ash.
"That," he said between ragged breaths, "was a battlefield controller."
Mark scanned the woods one last time, senses tight.
"They'll remember this," he said.
He looked down at Jethro—at the boy who had gone out to observe and had reshaped the fight itself.
"And so will we."
Behind them, the forest withdrew.
Not defeated.
But wary.
________________________________________
They didn't relax immediately.
Mark made them wait—thirty seconds, then another thirty—listening for pursuit, for the sound of goblins regrouping, for anything that suggested the fight wasn't finished. Only when the forest stayed quiet in that tense, watchful way did he lower his spear.
"Loot fast," he said. "Eyes up."
The clearing looked wrong in daylight.
Ash lay in irregular drifts where bodies had been moments before. Weapons and armour rested among it, pristine and untouched by the violence that had birthed them. Spears with straight shafts and clean bindings. Axes with edges sharper than any forge they owned. Leather armour settling into shapes that suggested owners who were no longer there.
Thomas moved carefully, bow slung again, gathering arrows that lay half-buried in gray dust. Each one was clean, unbent, unharmed.
"None snapped," he said quietly. "Not one."
"Keep count," Mark replied. "We don't assume abundance."
Carl tested a spear, then another, choosing one with a heavier head and a balance that matched his stride. He handed it to Mark without comment. Mark accepted it with a nod.
Jethro stood where he had dropped, breathing finally slowing, hands still trembling faintly.
Everything feels loud now, he thought. Not sound—intent. Residual motion, like ripples after a stone hits water.
Carl noticed.
He finished securing his axe and walked over, slow and deliberate, giving Jethro time to see him coming.
"You did more than good," Carl said.
Jethro looked up, eyes bloodshot. "I almost got you killed."
Carl crouched in front of him so they were eye level. His voice stayed calm. Warm. Steady in a way that cut through the noise in Jethro's head.
"No," he said firmly. "You're the reason we walked out of that alive."
Jethro shook his head weakly. "I was shouting too much. Telling Mark where to step. Telling Thomas when to shoot. I—"
Carl stopped him with a raised hand.
"Listen to me," Carl said. "I've fought in places where men with twice your training froze because no one could see the whole field. I've watched squads fall apart because everyone was strong, fast, brave—and blind."
He tapped two fingers against his own temple.
"What you did out there?" he continued. "That's not instinct. That's not luck. That's battlefield control."
Jethro swallowed.
Carl's hand settled on his son's shoulder, heavy and grounding.
"Strength breaks lines. Speed exploits openings," Carl said. "But a Controller decides whether a fight is won before the first blow lands. You don't just react—you shape the fight itself."
Jethro's breath hitched. "I don't feel like I shaped anything. It was just… obvious."
Carl smiled then, slow and proud. "That's how you know it's real."
He leaned in slightly. "Do you know how rare that is?"
Jethro didn't answer.
"I've served fifteen years," Carl said quietly. "Seen hundreds of good fighters. Dozens of great ones. I can count on one hand the people who could read a battlefield the way you did today."
He squeezed Jethro's shoulder once. "You're not replaceable. Not ever. And anyone who understands war will kill to have someone like you standing behind them."
Jethro stared at the ground, overwhelmed.
Carl softened his tone. "Now—one thing to remember."
Jethro looked up.
"You don't need to tell people how to swing," Carl said. "They already know. What they need from you is the flow. Where the pressure is building. Where it's about to break. When to push. When to let the enemy run."
Jethro nodded slowly. "Flow over moves."
Carl's smile returned, wider this time. "Exactly. You call the river. We'll do the swimming."
Mark watched from a distance, saying nothing, but he didn't miss the way Jethro straightened after that—or the way the tension in his shoulders finally eased.
They finished looting quickly after that.
Two full sets of leather armour. Four spears. Three axes. A short sword with a balance better than it had any right to be. And—after several empty piles—one monster core, dark and faintly warm, pulsing slowly like a patient heart.
Mark wrapped it without ceremony.
"We take this home," he said. "We don't decide anything out here."
No one argued.
They left the clearing the way they came, moving quieter now, more confident—but not careless.
Behind them, the forest remained still.
Not empty.
But reconsidering.
________________________________________
They didn't speak much on the way back.
The forest let them go without resistance, branches no longer clawing at armour, the pressure easing with every step toward open land. Whatever lesson the goblins had learned, it had been enough—for now.
The Jensen farmhouse came into view through the thinning trees, solid and familiar against the fields.
And guarded.
Ethan moved first, rising from behind a fence post with a spear leveled until he recognized them. Luke appeared a heartbeat later from the barn's shadow, heavier spear resting easily in his hands, posture loose but ready.
"Clear?" Ethan called.
"Clear," Mark answered. "For now."
Luke's eyes flicked over them, counting, cataloging wounds. He relaxed only when he saw Jethro upright and walking under his own power.
"Good hunt?" Luke asked.
Carl gave a short, grim smile. "Productive."
They brought the loot inside and laid it out on the long kitchen table. Leather armour adjusted as it settled, reshaping subtly as if testing the space. Weapons rested quietly among them, clean and waiting.
Sarah stood back at first, arms folded, eyes taking in details most others missed—stitching patterns, grain direction, the way the leather plates overlapped without obvious seams.
Then Mark unwrapped the monster core.
It was darker than the last. Heavier. Warm in a way that wasn't heat so much as presence.
The moment it touched the air, Sarah inhaled sharply.
She didn't step forward.
The core came to her.
Not physically—not yet—but she felt it unmistakably, like a tug behind her sternum, a pull that made her breath catch and her hands itch.
"Oh," she said quietly.
Emily's head snapped up. "Mom?"
Sarah frowned, eyes unfocused. "That's… different."
Mark looked between them. "Different how?"
Sarah closed her eyes.
Images flickered behind her lids—hands cutting, shaping, reinforcing. Not wounds. Materials. Leather stretched just enough not to tear. Plates layered to deflect without binding. Weight balanced so the body could still move, still fight.
"I can see how it goes together," she said slowly. "Not just this armour. Better versions. Adjustments. Reinforcement points."
Jethro swallowed. "You're feeling an affinity."
Sarah opened her eyes, unsettled but steady. "Yes. But not healing. Not directly."
She reached out, stopping just short of touching the leather vest on the table.
"Craft," she said. "Specifically… armour. Leather. Flexible protection."
The core pulsed once, faint and patient.
Emily stepped closer, excitement tempered by caution. "It's responding to you."
Mark felt a familiar tightening in his chest—not fear, but responsibility.
"You don't touch it yet," he said gently. "We still don't know—"
Sarah shook her head.
"No," she said, voice calm but firm. "We do know enough."
Mark looked at her sharply. "Sarah—"
She met his eyes, the same look she'd given him on battlefields and in triage tents when waiting had cost lives.
"We can't keep treating this like it's poison," she said. "We're already changed. You saw what it did for Luke. For Jethro. This isn't temptation—it's a tool."
Carl said nothing, but he didn't look surprised.
Sarah turned back to the table.
"If this helps me keep armour on our kids that actually works," she continued, "then we stop hesitating."
Mark exhaled slowly. "If it goes wrong—"
"Then I'll handle it," she said simply. "Like I always have."
Silence stretched.
Then Mark nodded once.
"Controlled," he said. "Everyone ready."
Sarah didn't hesitate again.
She placed her hand flat against the core.
It was warm—then hot—then something else entirely. The surface softened, not melting but yielding, flowing like thick liquid light. It spread across her palm, sinking into her skin without pain.
Her hand began to glow.
Not bright. Just a soft, amber-white illumination that traced the lines of her fingers and faded slowly into her wrist.
Sarah gasped—not in distress, but surprise.
Information flooded in—not words, not images alone, but *understanding*. Leather weights. Tension curves. Stress points. How a seam could turn a blade. How a fold could redirect force. How to reinforce without rigidity.
She staggered slightly.
Mark caught her immediately.
"I'm good," she said quickly. "I'm good."
The glow faded.
Her hand looked normal again—except it felt… capable. Sensitive. As if it understood material the way her eyes understood wounds.
"That's it," Jethro said softly. "That was a crafting core."
The name stuck instantly.
Sarah flexed her fingers, then ran them across the leather vest on the table.
She smiled—small, stunned, and a little awed.
"I know how to improve this," she said. "Not just one piece. All of it. And… other things too. Wood. Bone. Metal—just a little. Enough to see how they fit together."
Emily's eyes shone. "A primary affinity with secondary bleed-over."
Sarah nodded. "Exactly."
Mark looked at his wife's hand, then at the armour that would soon protect their children.
"Alright," he said quietly. "Then we use it."
Outside, the fields remained calm.
Inside, something new had taken root—not destruction, not survival—
—but creation.
And for the first time since the world changed, the Jensen farm didn't just feel defended.
It felt prepared.