The Lancer Who Never Struck First

In the open, under the watchful eyes of Gridanian mentors, he learned to wield the lance with textbook form. His strikes were efficient, if not enthusiastic. He understood the weapon’s reach, its rhythm — but there was something absent. A lack of flourish. A lack of personal interest.

They chalked it up to shyness. But in truth, he missed the weight of a knife in his hand.

Each night, after lessons ended and the Shroud fell quiet, Finn would return to the still parts of the forest. There, in the solitude beneath moonlight and leaf, he trained in the ways the Tonberries had taught him — not with sweeping strikes, but with measured cuts, targeted movement, unseen entry.

He became what the forest demanded: small, silent, and sharp.

However, the Lancer’s Guild provided a structure — one he needed to blend in, to survive in this world. But it was only ever a stepping stone. The real training happened after dark. When others rested, Finn practiced stealth. When they shouted their war cries, he held his breath and vanished.

To most, he was a quiet recruit with decent reflexes.

To the trees, the shadows, and eventually the underground, he was something else entirely:
A blade shaped by patience.
A hunter who never looked like one.
A child of monsters, walking quietly among men.