The Devouring Knight-Chapter 92 - 91: When Power Refuses

Two days later, on the road to Greyvale

The road was wide and empty.

Too empty.

Lumberling’s eyes flicked to the sky. High above, one of the golden eagles let out a short cry and circled.

"Trouble ahead," Skitz murmured beside him. "Just over the rise. Fifty, maybe more."

"Bandits?" Aren asked.

"No formation. No campfires. No banners." Skitz shrugged. "It’s bandits, or the world’s sloppiest mercs."

"They’re waiting to ambush," Lumberling said. "Let them."

His voice was steady.

They marched forward until the trees thickened and the dirt path narrowed into a small pass, flanked by slopes and boulders.

The perfect place for a trap.

And just as predicted, shapes emerged from the cliffs and brush. Dozens of them.

Fifty at least.

Grimy men in patchwork armor, grinning with crooked teeth and blood-rusted weapons.

And at their head, four figures cloaked in mismatched steel. A different aura clung to them. Heavier. Tighter.

Knight Page stage.

The lead bandit stepped forward, blade drawn, eyes gleaming with confidence. "You’ve wandered into the wrong woods, friends. But don’t worry, we’ll lighten your load before you die."

Lumberling didn’t answer.

He just raised his hand and clenched his fist.

The formation broke like thunder.

Duskspire struck with merciless precision. These weren’t merchants or untrained men.

They were killers.

The bandits barely had time to raise their weapons before the first wave hit.

Rogar slammed into the flank, his spear clearing bodies with each sweep. Gorrak’s hammer crashed down like a siege bell. Skitz vanished, reappearing behind one Knight Page and driving his sword between shoulder blades.

Trask launched into the center, blades carving a bloody arc through the unprepared middle ranks.

Lumberling locked eyes with one of the leaders.

Knight Page.

Good.

Their weapons clashed with force, the bandit fighting with wild strength. But Lumberling’s movements were sharper, his form honed by constant war.

A feint. A step. A twist.

The bandit’s chest opened in a gory spray.

Essence Devour.

From Lumberling’s chest, a violet thread burst forth, coiling through the air before latching onto the corpse. He absorbed it in a single breath, the familiar flood of strength washing through him.

(You have devoured the Swordsman’s essence. 55 Essence absorbed. Absorbing a portion of the Swordsman’s memories and experience.)

The second Knight was brought down by Aren and Rogar, his essence reserved for Lumberling.

The third fell to Skitz.

And the fourth... Lumberling chose to spare.

He didn’t kill him outright.

Instead, he pierced the man through the stomach, non-lethal, but fatal enough to leave him fading.

Then, carefully, deliberately, Lumberling focused and activated his skill.

Essence Weave.

He directed the bandit’s essence, a Knight Page, violent, human, toward Aren.

The thread began to bridge between them.

But a surge of rejection pulsed in the air like a shockwave. The essence bucked violently, twisting and convulsing.

Aren gasped as the rejected essence tore through him like static, his legs nearly buckling. The thread of Essence Weave snapped in midair with a sharp, flickering recoil.

Aren clutched his chest, gasping. "That wasn’t essence... it felt like poison. I thought I was dying."

Lumberling stepped back, watching the residual energy fizzle into nothing.

"I thought so."

The others had seen it too.

Trask tilted his head. "Did it fail?"

Skitz folded his arms. "Knight’s energy in the essence. And Monster’s body. They can’t mix. Same as before."

Lumberling’s frown deepened.

’How do I separate the Knight’s energy from the essence? Is that even possible?’

The idea stirred something in him, but the truth was, he wasn’t skilled enough. Not yet.

He turned to the last of the bandits, now lying fully still, body limp in the mud.

Useless.

Wasting essence always left a sour taste. But what bit deeper was the wall he couldn’t break through. A ceiling he could see... but not yet touch.

He exhaled slowly.

Another goal added to the list.

The night crept in, quiet and cold.

...

Later that night at the campfire.

The flames cracked and popped softly as the squad rested.

Aren sat cross-legged, still trying to shake the lingering backlash. Gorrak poked at a slab of meat over the fire. Rogar sat sharpening his blade.

Lumberling stood on the edge of the camp, hands behind his back, staring into the forest.

Skitz approached.

"You were hoping to share that power," he said.

"I was," Lumberling replied. "It would’ve changed everything if it worked."

"Well, it didn’t." Skitz shrugged. "But we’ll try again. We always do."

Lumberling didn’t respond immediately. Then:

"We’ll start collecting skill manuals," he said. "From ruins, battlefield sites. Anywhere we can. If we can’t transfer Knight essence to them... we’ll build them up another way."

Skitz smirked. "Building our own library of skills, huh?"

Lumberling’s voice was firm. "Yes. One they can draw from. Train with. Master. Our people won’t stay behind."

He didn’t look back at the fire.

Only forward, into the dark.

....

Four months later at the Duskspire Base

The heavy gates of the manor groaned open as Lumberling and his company returned, dust-caked and blood-worn. The mission had been another success. Fell Lynxes eliminated from the northern woods. Silent, ice-coated predators with claws that could shear through steel and vanish into mist. Dangerous... but not enough.

Lumberling dismounted and handed his reins to a waiting hobgoblin. His eyes scanned the courtyard, quiet, disciplined. The elite squads moved with purpose, even tired as they were. Routine had been carved into them like muscle memory.

Inside the manor, the main hall had been organized with new war maps, pinned contracts, and a rotation board for missions and rest periods.

They were growing.

And yet... the storm on the horizon was darker than ever.

Lumberling sat at his desk as Skitz dropped a handful of letters onto the wooden surface.

"Fresh batch," Skitz said. "One’s from the goblin village. The other from Krivex."

Lumberling took the smallest seal first. It was marked with a crude but familiar sketch of a flower. Jen’s handiwork.

He opened it, and the simple parchment inside carried a line of shaky, careful script.

’Dear Brother,

We’re doing well! I’ve been training every day, Uncle Drake says I hit harder now. Celine’s belly is big now, and Uncle Orrin taught me how to set traps! I hope you’re okay too. Don’t die.

– Jen’

Lumberling smiled faintly. His fingers lingered on the ink, then carefully folded it again and placed it in a small wooden box beside the desk.

Then he opened the second letter.

Krivex’s writing was neater, sharper.

’My Lord,

The second base has been completed. Reinforced walls. Hidden entrances. We’ve built our own forge now. Training has been consistent, every week, a few evolve. We’ve had minor skirmishes. Lost four. Injuries mount, but spirits remain strong.

They’re growing, just as we planned.

—Krivex’

Lumberling exhaled slowly.

Four dead.

It was war. Even in preparation. But every name mattered.

He stood and crossed to the large map pinned against the stone wall, where colored pins marked the movements of cities, armies, and flames.

More cities had fallen since the last update.

Villages burned. Trade routes vanished. The borders were no longer stable.

Skitz entered behind him, glancing at the map.

"Smoke in the north," he muttered. "Reports say a town called Harrowend is gone. Flattened overnight. The war’s boiling."

"No signs of Sengolio patrols yet," Lumberling said.

"Not yet. But they’re moving."

He nodded once and called for the eagle master.

Golden feathers shimmered in the torchlight as the three beasts landed in the courtyard, restless.

"We need eyes on the roads, mountains, river passes," he told the handler. "Double their scouting range. If they show signs of stress, rotate shifts."

The eagle master bowed low. "They’ll fly, my Lord."

Back inside, Aren and Trask were reviewing incoming contract sheets.

"Do we keep hunting monsters?" Aren asked. "Or go quiet for a while?"

Lumberling tapped the map, fingers tracing the frontlines like a chessboard.

"We keep moving. Quiet. Contracts only if they’re far from known army paths. No village too close to the flames."

"Understood," Aren said.

Skitz folded his arms. "We’re strong... but we’re not ready to fight a whole war yet."

Lumberling’s gaze narrowed on a red pin newly placed near the southern border.

"No," he said softly. "We’re not ready yet."

But they would be.

Every mission was more than coin, it was training. Camouflage. Experience. Power.

The tide hadn’t reached them yet.

But the storm was coming.

And when it did... Duskspire would be ready to rise from the shadows.

.....

One morning.

The training yard echoed with the dull thud of shields slamming against practice dummies.

"Again!" Lumberling barked, standing at the edge of the dirt clearing, arms crossed.

A row of soldiers stepped forward, shields up. In perfect rhythm, they surged ahead, boom, shields crashing into reinforced straw targets that rattled against their wooden frames. Dust kicked up in bursts.

"Drive through the center mass," Lumberling said, walking between them. "Don’t just stagger, break their line."

The Shield Bash skill manual had been well received. The technique was simple in concept but brutal in execution: a defensive stagger turned into controlled disruption. Perfect for breaking formations, and Duskspire was learning fast.

Not far from them, under a separate canopy, Trask stood shirtless, sweat clinging to his scaled torso. In each hand, a curved twin blade shimmered faintly with motion. Three others mirrored his form, their movements clunky by comparison, but improving.

Trask corrected one of them with a grunt, repositioning a shoulder, adjusting a stance.

"Twin swords don’t flow like spears," he said. "They carve in arcs. You move like wind, not stone."

The Twin Blade Skill Manual, purchased with gold collected from their last string of victories, had been entrusted to Trask and the three recruits who showed affinity for the weapon. Already, their sparring was faster, deadlier. Like watching wolves circle prey.

Meanwhile, closer to the main yard, Lumberling moved toward the other cluster, those practicing the Flowing Edge, a foundational sword technique from the newly acquired sword skill manual. It focused on footwork, reactive slashes, and conserving momentum between strikes.

He joined them.

No command. No announcement.

He simply stepped into the line, sword drawn, mirroring their movements.

Slash. Step. Recenter. Pivot. Slash again.

The soldiers didn’t stop. But they straightened. Sharpened. Trained harder.

Because when their Lord trained with them, they remembered why they followed him.

Not because of orders.

But because he bled beside them.

Because he never stopped chasing the edge of power.

And because he believed in each of them.

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