The Devouring Knight-Chapter 89 - 88: A Familiar World in Disguise

The sun was dipping below the treeline when Lumberling and the Duskspire Legion returned to Willowshade Village.

They came not in formation, but in quiet, unshaken stride, armor dark with dried blood, cloaks torn at the edges, weapons nicked from use. Over the saddle of one horse was slung the Alpha Jackal’s carcass, its monstrous form wrapped in cloth, but the bulk unmistakable. Behind them, bundled in cloth and sacks, were claws, teeth, pelts, and glands, resources stripped from the monsters they had felled.

The village head and Captain Halric waited at the gates.

They stared.

First at the group.

Then at the carcass.

Then back at the masked soldiers, each radiating a quiet, lethal calm.

"...It’s dead," Halric muttered, voice low, almost unbelieving.

Lumberling dismounted, handing the reins to a waiting soldier. "The Alpha. And the pack."

The village head staggered a step forward, eyes wide. "Gone? All of them?"

Lumberling nodded. "The forest’s clean."

A silence followed, heavy with the weight of months of fear that had just... evaporated.

Then Halric let out a slow exhale. "Gods..."

....

That evening, a small feast was prepared, not grand, but warm. Roasted fowl, preserved wine, bread with fresh herbs. Enough for Lumberling and his captains to sit, eat, and be acknowledged.

Only the village head and Halric joined them in the large wooden hall.

Candles flickered low as food was laid out. Skitz stood at Lumberling’s side, unmasked now, eating with sharp precision. Trask devoured roast meat quietly. Rogar and Gorrak sat near the walls, weapons still strapped. Aren leaned against the window, chewing on jerky, his eyes scanning the village outside.

After the first toast, short and stiff, the village head stood.

"We... owe you our lives," he said. "Our people slept with blades for months. Trade died. The forest felt cursed. And now..."

He gestured toward the Alpha’s skull, which Lumberling had mounted on a spare pike beside the doorway. "Now we can breathe again."

Halric cleared his throat and placed a heavy pouch on the table.

"The bounty was set at five hundred gold."

He hesitated.

"...But we only have three hundred available right now."

Lumberling looked at the pouch but didn’t reach for it.

"The attacks drained us," the village head added quickly. "We had to relocate families, rebuild after every raid. And the lord of this county... he’s holed up behind his walls. No aid. No coin."

Lumberling glanced at Skitz, who gave the faintest nod of understanding.

He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table.

"I’ll take the three hundred, I won’t ask for the rest of the gold," he said, tone steady but unreadable. "But I want something else."

The village head and Captain Halric tensed. They exchanged a glance.

"Information," Lumberling continued. "Everything you know about the war."

Halric’s brow furrowed. "What we’ve heard is... fragmented. Whispers, mostly."

"Still," Lumberling said, "Whispers can draw maps when pieced together."

Halric stepped forward, arms crossed. "The Sengolio Empire... was never stronger than us. Never weaker either. We hated each other, but the balance held."

The village head exhaled and reached for a chipped mug of watered wine. "But then, the Sengolio suddenly went full-scale, mobilizing faster than anyone expected. Everyone assumed they’d bluff, posture, throw some troops at the border like usual..."

He gave a humorless chuckle. "Turns out it wasn’t a bluff."

"They hit six cities in three months," Halric cut in. "Precision strikes. Coordinated. It wasn’t just brute force, it was strategy. Timing. We thought they’d been holding back numbers. But now..." He shook his head.

"They weren’t acting alone," the village head said grimly.

That got Lumberling’s full attention. "What do you mean?"

"They gained an ally," Halric said. "A foreign empire. Far away, too far for us to reach. Most haven’t even heard the name before this year."

"They call themselves the Empire of the Aetherborn," the head added.

Skitz shifted beside Lumberling, eyes narrowing beneath his hood. "Aetherborn?"

Halric shrugged. "That’s what the reports say. But here’s the strange part. They have no Knights. Not a single one."

Lumberling’s eyes sharpened. "Then what do they have?"

A beat passed.

"They call themselves mages," the captain said.

A stillness settled over the table. Even Skitz looked over at Lumberling, sensing the tension that ran through his Lord’s spine.

Mages.

Lumberling knew that word well.

Not from this world, but from the one before.

Fireballs. Teleportation. Illusions. Arcane force. A different system, one that didn’t train muscle and essence, but bent the very laws of the world to the will of the mind.

He didn’t speak right away.

"They’re not like us," the captain continued. "No armor. No swords. Just... light. Shadows. Fire that burns without logs. Lightning from the sky."

"Some say they can command the weather," the village head murmured. "That their soldiers don’t bleed... they just vanish."

"Just rumors," Halric muttered. "But if half of it’s true... then that’s why Sengolio struck first. They weren’t just confident. They had magic backing them."

Lumberling finally spoke, his voice low. "Then that’s what tipped the scale."

Neither man replied. What else was there to say?

Mages were more than just an unknown, they were an unpredictable threat. Knights you could counter with better Knights. But magic? That was a problem no sword could solve.

He stood from the table, his cloak falling around him.

"Thank you," he said. "You’ve given me more than gold ever could."

Halric blinked. "You believe us?"

"I do," Lumberling replied. "Because I’ve seen the patterns in war. And only a new piece on the board moves the lines this fast."

As he turned to leave, Skitz followed, but not before giving the captain a small nod of gratitude.

Once outside, as they walked toward the stables, Skitz glanced over.

"Mages, huh?" he muttered. "You’ve got that look. Like you’ve met them before."

"Not met. But I’ve read enough to know... this isn’t just war anymore."

Skitz frowned. "So? What is it now?"

Lumberling’s eyes narrowed on the path ahead.

"It’s transformation. The rules are about to change, and most of the people in the empire doesn’t even know it yet."

They passed a row of tethered horses. The night wind tugged at Lumberling’s cloak, but he barely noticed.

’This,’ he thought, ’is why Sengolio moved so boldly. Why their troops struck fast. Why they didn’t hesitate.’

’Because they weren’t marching alone anymore.’

’They had mages.’

And mages, he knew, could rewrite the battlefield with a word.

...

The next morning, before the mist had fully lifted, Lumberling and his squad saddled up.

The Alpha’s skull now rested lashed to one of the eagles. The rest of the monster parts were carefully packed, they would fetch coin or crafting materials in the guild.

As they departed, the village head and Captain Halric watched from the gates.

"They’re not mercenaries," Halric muttered under his breath.

"No," the village head replied. "They’re something else."

Lumberling didn’t look back.

He had no interest in applause.

Only in momentum.

Back on the road, Skitz rode beside him, cloak flapping behind him.

"So," he said. "We heading back to the guild?"

Lumberling nodded. "For now. To report, sell, regroup."

"And after?"

His eyes narrowed toward the horizon.

"...We see what war with mages looks like."

...

Greyvale City – Mercenary Guild

The afternoon sun poured through the stained glass of the mercenary guild’s front hall, casting red and gold light across the stone floor. Lumberling stepped inside, Skitz just behind him, both of them still cloaked in the scent of blood, sweat, and wilderness.

The usual bustle quieted.

Eyes turned toward them, mercenaries sharpening blades, bartering over gear, nursing bruises with stale ale. Conversations stuttered. Some of the younger ones shrank back.

It wasn’t just the armor or the masks.

It was the weight they carried. The quiet edge that marked them as something different.

Lumberling walked to the front desk and placed the Alpha’s fanged skull down with a heavy thud.

"Shadow Jackals. Job’s done."

The receptionist, a wiry man with thinning hair and ink-stained fingers, blinked at the grisly trophy, then at the seal attached to the completed contract.

He swallowed.

"Y-Yes. Right... One moment."

He scrambled to gather the proper forms, hands fumbling slightly. Skitz watched him with an expression between amusement and boredom.

Lumberling leaned on the counter, surveying the guild.

Most mercenaries here were battle-hardened men and women, sure. Elite soldier-level, from the look of them. But there was rarely someone who had reached Knight Page stage, let alone Quasi-Knight. And that was why so many contracts stayed posted for months, dangerous, high-risk missions that these warriors simply couldn’t survive.

They weren’t ready.

And maybe, Lumberling thought, they never would be.

The receptionist returned, stamping the parchment and sliding over a pouch heavy with coin.

"We’ve confirmed the kill. Consider the contract fulfilled. Payment, three hundred gold."

Lumberling gave a curt nod. Skitz scooped the pouch.

"We’ve also got some materials for sale," Lumberling added, motioning to the pack slung over his shoulder. "Teeth, claws, hide. Alpha’s included."

By evening, the materials had been appraised and sold, jackal leather, bones, venom glands. The sum wasn’t immense, 50 gold coins, but it added to their growing coffers.

As they exited the guild and stepped into the lamplit streets, Skitz gave him a sidelong glance.

"We’re not sleeping outside again, are we?"

Lumberling exhaled. "No. That’s done."

Skitz grinned. "Finally. About time we had a roof."

.....

Later That Night — Greyvale’s Residential Quarter

With the combined gold from the bounty and monster materials, Lumberling made the decision. He and Skitz toured a handful of properties with a disinterested broker who kept glancing at their armor with suspicion.

Eventually, they found it.

An older stone manor on the city’s quieter edge, partially abandoned, two stories tall, with a wide courtyard and thick walls. Slightly overgrown, but sturdy. Private. Defensible.

Perfect.

They sealed the deal by dusk.

Inside the New Base

The next morning, the elite squads were brought in, one unit at a time under cloak and cover. The manor became alive with quiet activity, rooms cleaned, storage organized, schedules established.

Lumberling stood in the main hall, hands behind his back, watching as his people moved through the corridors like shadows.

It wasn’t a fortress.

Not yet.

But it was a beginning.

"We’ll keep the monsters hidden inside," Skitz said beside him, running a hand along the stone wall. "Keep appearances clean for now."

Lumberling nodded, thoughts already turning ahead.

They had a base.

Now they needed to build something greater.

"We’re here now," he murmured. "Let’s make sure we leave a mark."

.....

The midday sun filtered through a haze of smoke and dust as Lumberling wandered alone through the market. The streets were alive with the scent of roasted meat and the calls of vendors, carts rattling past filled with sacks of grain and pottery. He moved through the crowd quietly, cloak drawn close, eyes watching everything.

He wasn’t just browsing.

He was observing.

’War breaks empires... but it feeds cities,’ he thought.

Skitz and the others were gathering intelligence elsewhere, and he had ordered the elite squad to lie low for now. No new missions, not yet. Not until they understood the shape of the conflict surrounding them.

He turned a corner and paused.

Then froze.

A wooden stall stood across the street, shaded under a patched canvas tarp. At first glance, it looked like a smith’s tent or maybe a scribe’s booth. But behind the table of parchment and ink bottles stood something far more familiar.

A printing press.

Not just any printing press.

Gutenberg-style. Iron-screwed frame. Sliding tray. Movable type. Ink-stained rollers.

For a moment, he couldn’t breathe.

His boots stepped forward on their own, the noise of the crowd falling away. The merchant, a balding man in blue linen, looked up as Lumberling approached.

"Curious, sir?" the man asked with a practiced smile.

Lumberling’s voice came slowly. "What... is that?"

The merchant beamed and wiped ink from his fingers.

"One of the finest inventions of the old world, sir. A rune-assisted ink press. Designed to copy books, leaflets, and public notices. Five silver a run, if you’ve a page prepared."

’Old world?’ Lumberling’s pulse kicked.

"Show me," he said.

The man gestured for him to step closer. He slid a wooden tray into the press, lined with lead-letter type. He inked the surface with a brayer, slid a parchment over it, then cranked the upper screw until the press flattened with a satisfying clunk.

A moment later, he peeled the paper back, perfect lettering, clean lines, evenly pressed.

Lumberling stared at the result. "How long have these been around?"

"Centuries, they say. At least a hundred years, maybe more."

The merchant said it casually, but Lumberling’s mind was reeling.

This shouldn’t be here.

Not this early. Not in this world.

The timelines didn’t match, not unless...

He left the stall in a daze and began weaving deeper through the market. His eyes scanned everything now with new clarity. The illusion of medieval simplicity was starting to crack.

And behind it... were artifacts.

He passed a stall selling standardized bar soaps, cut and wrapped in wax paper.

Another sold firestarter kits, not just crude flint and steel, but flint-wheel lighters and matchsticks sealed in clay tubes.

Another merchant hawked charcoal pencils alongside stitched-paper notebooks, their bindings clean and precise.

On another table sat flat, polished glass mirrors, far too refined for local craftsmanship.

And beside them...

Forks. Spoons. Uniform steel utensils. Manufactured, not hammered.

All of it... all of it reeked of familiarity.

’Not native,’ he thought. ’Imported. Or replicated.’

Someone had introduced these designs to this world. Not just one item. A flood of them.

And not recently.

They were widespread.

Refined.

Standardized.

They had time to spread.

Lumberling stood frozen in the center of the marketplace, the clamor of merchants and customers fading to static in his ears.

’How did I miss this? I’ve lived in this world for years... and I only noticed now?’

His jaw tightened.

’No. I’ve been too focused, too deep in the forests, too obsessed with strength and survival to look outward. I’ve been chasing power while someone else... was changing the world.’

His gaze swept across the stalls again, mirrors, pencils, lighters, printed books. Every one of them a ghost of Earth.

’Someone like me came here first.’

He clenched his fist, a slow coil of awe and unease blooming in his chest.

If they’d come from Earth, like he had...

What had they done?

Who had they become?

More importantly, what had they left behind?

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