Chapter 7: Goblin Attack and Testing Strength

Time, as it turned out, wasn’t just strange in the vault. It was ’silent.’

Leon stepped through the veil of reality into the gray, endless expanse of the Dimensional Hourglass. The world outside would tick forward three hours.

In here?

Four months and three days.

More than a hundred days of nothing but himself, the floor, and a pair of steel blades that didn’t care how tired he felt.

There were no targets. No dummy to stab. No glowing XP bar or dramatic transformation scene.

Just Leon. Alone. Moving.

And the silence.

At first, he flailed. Clumsy strikes, awkward footwork. No opponent to parry. No real feedback. Just the echo of his own breath and the chaotic rhythm of his uncertainty.

’Am I improving?’

’Is this even working?’

Doubt crept in like mold. Some days he trained with focus. Other days, he argued with the void. He lost track of time inside time.

No injuries. No soreness. No way to ’measure’ growth.

Only motion.

But slowly—gradually—something began to shift.

His footwork grew tighter. His balance steadier. He no longer swung wild; he cut. He no longer stumbled after pivots; he flowed.

He couldn’t see change. But he could ’feel’ it.

Each time he stepped, he knew where his weight was. Each turn of the blade, he felt control.

Instinct layered itself over repetition. Muscle memory born not from brute strength, but from obsession.

The vault didn’t test his body. It tested his will.

And somehow, he’d passed.

---

When he blinked back into the real world, it was like surfacing from a long, quiet dream.

Three hours.

His room was the same. The soup still faintly steamed. The floor still creaked.

Leon stood still, letting the silence settle around him.

No new muscles. No glow-up. Still a skinny seven-year-old.

But when he moved—just a small pivot, a shift in stance—he felt it.

Control.

Precision.

Confidence.

Not the kind you shouted about.

The kind you ’carried.’

He dropped onto the bed and passed out cold, mind exhausted in ways his body couldn’t understand.

---

The sun was climbing when Leon finally stirred.

He stretched, blinked blearily, then let a slow grin creep across his face.

Last night, just before collapsing, he’d tested something on instinct.

The daggers?

They’d slipped back into his soul-inventory like they belonged there.

Seamless.

Clean.

His cheat menu was officially working overtime.

"I love this world," he muttered, rolling off the bed with a stretch.

He washed up, threw on his gear, slung the soup pot over his back like it was sacred cargo—and stepped outside.

Same streets. Same stalls. Same world.

But this time?

He moved like he had ’options.’

The soup stall was booming.

Again.

Grayridge’s finest source of infinite warmth had drawn its usual line—ragged workers, exhausted mothers, scrawny kids clinging to coins like lifelines. The scent of savory broth wrapped around the square like a safety net.

Leon worked fast. Ladle. Bowl. Coin. Nod. Repeat.

This was his routine now.

It wasn’t glamorous, but it was working.

Until the screaming started.

A single, piercing shriek tore across the street—high-pitched and ’wrong’, the kind of sound that made you freeze before your brain caught up.

Then came the shouting.

Then the stampede.

People scattered like someone had pulled a fire alarm on reality. Market stalls flipped. Baskets flew. A wheel of cheese went rogue and took out a child’s leg.

Leon blinked, bowl still in hand.

"What the hell—?"

Then he saw it.

A goblin. Pale green, short, snarling. Filthy blade in one hand. Blood on the other.

Behind it, more.

Dozens.

Flooding in from the cracked southern barricade, shrieking with joy and murder in their eyes.

The guards?

Nowhere.

The vendors?

Running.

A woman tripped in front of his stall, clutching her bleeding arm. "My son—my son’s still—" She didn’t finish. A goblin lunged from behind and dragged her down, blade flashing.

Leon flinched as her scream was cut short.

Another goblin laughed—wet and broken like a choking crow—and started toward the next closest human: a man trying to protect his stall with a broomstick.

It didn’t work.

Leon stepped back, eyes wide, ladle gripped like it could somehow help.

’No.’

Usually during monster attacks, he was tucked away—sewers, alleys, places too forgotten to bother raiding.

But now?

He was here. In the open. On the main street. And he’d drawn attention.

One of the goblins paused mid-sprint. Sniffed.

Its red eyes locked onto Leon.

Not the stall.

Not the soup.

’Him.’

Leon’s stomach twisted. The goblin hissed—and charged.

The goblin charged—snarling, low, fast.

People screamed around him. Stalls toppled. Blood painted the cobbles.

But Leon didn’t move.

He didn’t ’panic.’

Instead, a grin broke across his face—tight, sharp, electric.

’Finally. Let’s see if I’m all talk or just trauma with knives.’

He reached inward with practiced ease.

Fwip.

Twin daggers shimmered into his hands, pulled clean from the soul-vault like extensions of his will.

Cold steel. Familiar weight. No hesitation.

The red Ring of Minor Regeneration pulsed on his finger—warm and steady, like a promise.

’Minor injuries? Covered. Major ones? Don’t get hit. Perfect system.’

His feet shifted into stance.

"I’ve been waiting Four months and three days for this," Leon muttered, eyes locked on the goblin. "Let’s dance, sewer gremlin."

The goblin lunged—blade-first, shrieking.

Clang!

Leon sidestepped, blade scraping past his shoulder.

’Fast, but not trained. Just rage and instinct. I can work with that.’

He ducked under the backswing—whoosh—and rolled to the side, coming up with a jab at the goblin’s ribs.

Thunk.

The dagger connected—but shallow. Not enough.

’Damn. No real power behind it. Seven-year-old arms aren’t built for killshots.’

The goblin shrieked and spun, slashing wide.

Leon twisted away—fluid, tight, deliberate. All reflex.

"Buddy," he said breathlessly, "you’re gonna have to try harder than—"

CLANG!

The goblin’s blade clipped his forearm—just a nick.

The ring flared warm.

Wound gone in seconds.

"—that," Leon finished, grin still intact. "God, I love insurance."

Another overhead slash. Wild. Desperate.

Leon danced sideways—scrtch!—boots sliding on stone.

He countered—low and clean—blade sweeping beneath the goblin’s arm.

Shlick.

Blood sprayed. The goblin reeled back, screeching.

Leon stepped with it. Tight. Controlled. ’I’m not running. Not today.’

"See? This is why you don’t rush the boss fight without reading the patch notes."

The goblin snarled, limping, panicked now.

It lunged again.

Leon pivoted—skrrt—let it pass.

He turned. Fast.

One dagger to the back of the knee—crk!

The second, to the neck—shhk!

The goblin froze. Twitched.

Dropped with a thud.

Leon stood over the body, breath light. Not from fatigue.

From ’clarity.’

He looked at the blood dripping from his blade.

’I can do this. I’m not useless. Not anymore.’

He exhaled. "Okay. Training montage? Worth it."

Another shriek echoed from up the street.

Leon’s head snapped toward the sound. Another goblin, charging.

He didn’t hesitate.

Daggers twirled in his hands as he stepped forward, eyes locked.

’Let’s make this one cleaner. No panic. No luck. Just control.’

’I’m not the prey anymore.’

And just like that—he was moving again.

Leon didn’t wait.

Another goblin was sprinting his way—drool hanging from its teeth, cleaver raised, murder in its eyes.

Leon twirled his daggers, stepping forward to meet it head-on.

he thought, eyes gleaming. ’I trained for this. Time to carve it into muscle memory.’