The Devouring Knight-Chapter 103 - 102: Not This Time

A Week Later, Midday, Forested Ridge

The sky was clear when it happened.

One of Lumberling’s golden eagles gave a sharp, echoing shriek above the trees, two piercing cries followed by a circling glide.

Everyone in Duskspire stopped at once.

Lumberling’s eyes snapped to the sky. His expression shifted.

He turned to his nearest elites.

"Prepare for battle."

Skitz immediately relayed the command. Aren and Gorrak began repositioning troops, weapons unsheathed in smooth, practiced motions.

"What?" Gerald frowned from the center ranks. "Is there an enemy?"

"Sengolio," Lumberling said, voice low. "Armor glint and banners match their standard. Light cavalry and infantry."

Gerald’s jaw tightened. "The Sengolio army? Here?! That doesn’t make sense, this is too far from the front. We should retreat now while we can!"

Some of Velric’s soldiers were already murmuring nervously, gripping their spears tighter.

But Lumberling didn’t flinch.

"The war is ongoing. Of course we’ll run into them eventually."

He turned, locking eyes with Gerald.

"We’re not retreating. The mission doesn’t end here."

Gerald opened his mouth to argue again. "But..."

"If you’re unwilling to fight," Lumberling cut in coldly, "stay back and let my men handle it."

The command struck like steel. Gerald’s face flushed, but he said nothing more.

"...Prepare to engage," he finally muttered to his troops.

Skitz rode up beside Lumberling, scanning the tree line. "Rough estimate from the eagle, three hundred. No obvious aura flares. I don’t think they have a true Knight or a mage."

"Then they’re just bait or stragglers," Lumberling murmured. "Still, it’s strange. Why ambush a noble’s caravan this far out?"

He cast the thought aside. Questions could wait.

"Set the formation. Hold the center line and let the elites collapse on their flanks."

"Yes, my Lord."

.....

Moments Later.

A war horn echoed through the forest. Then came the thunder of boots.

The Sengolio force emerged from the treeline, rows of footsoldiers followed by cavalry. Four armored figures led the charge, each pulsing with steady pressure. Quasi-Knights.

Gerald cursed under his breath. "Shit... four of them."

He glanced toward Lumberling, who hadn’t moved. The mercenary simply observed the oncoming force as if reading their story from the way they marched.

Then he turned to Gerald and said calmly, "You’ll take one of the Quasi-Knights. We’ll handle the rest."

"Wait, you can’t..."

But before the protest could finish, the Duskspire Legion surged forward.

Silent. Fast. Precise.

They moved as one, cutting across the field like black wolves through wheat.

Gerald froze for a heartbeat as he watched the masked warriors crash into the enemy front with terrifying momentum.

"Damn it," he growled. "Form ranks! Charge!"

His men followed, not with confidence, but because they feared being left behind.

.....

Steel clashed in the midday sun.

The air was filled with the roar of combat, steel against steel, screams, and the rhythmic pounding of boots on dirt.

Lumberling’s cloak fluttered as he moved through the fray, cutting a line toward the two approaching Quasi-Knights. One bore a gleaming spear, the other a heavy longsword. They came with practiced footwork and disciplined formation, clearly veterans.

But they were not ready for him.

The spear-wielder lunged.

Lumberling sidestepped with fluid precision, letting the tip whistle past his ribs, then pivoted with a brutal reverse thrust of his own. His spear struck the man’s shoulder guard with a crunch, tearing through steel like parchment. The Quasi-Knight screamed, crumpling.

(You have devoured the Quasi-Knight’s essence. 600 Essence absorbed. Absorbing a portion of the Quasi-Knight’s memories and experience.)

The sword-bearer struck from the flank, fast and heavy. Lumberling parried low, the impact sending vibrations up his arm, but he didn’t yield. He stepped in close, broke the man’s stance with a sharp kick to the knee, then drove the butt of his spear into the man’s temple.

A dull crack. The knight folded like cloth.

(You have devoured the Quasi-Knight’s essence. 600 Essence absorbed. Absorbing a portion of the Quasi-Knight’s memories and experience.)

Two Quasi-Knights, dead in less than a minute.

Lumberling exhaled slowly. "Too slow."

Nearby, Skitz ducked beneath a wide cleave and countered with a savage twist of his twin daggers. One blade bit deep into his enemy’s ribs, the other tore through the thigh. The Quasi-Knight barely had time to scream before Skitz spun behind him and opened his throat with clean precision.

"Next," Skitz muttered, already vanishing into the crowd.

Across the battlefield, Aren roared as he led the elite squads, fifty-four trained killers who moved like a single organism. Where Aren went, enemies fell. Their coordination was brutal and beautiful, a rotating wheel of flanks, counter-flanks, and finishing strikes.

Rogar and Gorrak held the western line, crushing enemy squads with raw force. Trask moved like a ghost, weaving through chaos and dragging enemies down like a wolf in the mist.

Baron Velric’s soldiers struggled to keep up, but they did their part. Formations held. Spears kept the Sengolio swarm from spilling past the front lines.

For a moment, the battle tilted toward victory.

Then Lumberling saw him.

Gerald.

Pinned.

The Knight’s blade was knocked aside. His shoulder was bleeding. His footing faltered. His opponent, a hulking Quasi-Knight in black, pressed forward with relentless fury.

Gerald cried out as he hit the ground.

"That fool."

Lumberling shot forward like an arrow loosed from a bow.

The enemy knight saw the opening and darted past Gerald, straight for the caravan.

’No.’ Lumberling’s breath hissed.

Then, a scream.

A woman’s voice. Distant. Desperate.

Lumberling’s eyes locked onto the rear caravan.

He sprinted.

Faster.

The sounds of combat dulled behind him as he reached the wagons.

There, the Quasi-Knight loomed over a figure in the back cart. Chains. Torn robes. Pale skin stained with bruises.

A girl.

An elf.

Lumberling’s heart slammed once in his chest. Recognition hit like a hammer.

Her.

The first elf he’d ever seen in this world.

The one sold from the black-market years ago.

She was curled in the back of the wagon, trembling. Her arms chained to the rails. Her lips cut. Her eyes...

Lifeless.

The Quasi-Knight reached for her.

He never made it. freewebnσvel.cѳm

Lumberling’s spear drove through his spine from behind with terrifying force, lifting him off the ground. He gave a final, ragged gasp, then went still.

(You have devoured the Quasi-Knight’s essence. 600 Essence absorbed. Absorbing a portion of the Quasi-Knight’s memories and experience.)

Lumberling let the body slide off his weapon and turned to the girl.

She didn’t speak.

Didn’t flinch.

Just stared at him, hollow-eyed, like someone who had died long ago but hadn’t noticed yet.

His fists tightened.

’What happened to you?’ he thought.

The bruises. The chains. The way her shoulders hunched inwards like she expected a blow.

He had questions. Too many.

But right now, only one thing mattered.

He sheathed his spear slowly and stepped toward her, crouching low. His voice was low, steady, almost gentle.

"...You’re safe now."

But she didn’t answer.

Didn’t move.

And that silence struck him harder than any blade.

.....

The clang of steel faded. The last of the Sengolio soldiers dropped to the blood-soaked dirt, pierced through by Aren’s blade. All around the battlefield, the Duskspire Legion stood silent but steady, breathing heavy, armor scratched, weapons slick with red.

It was over.

Knight Gerald limped forward, one hand clutching his bleeding side, the other holding his bent sword like a crutch. His armor was cracked. Dirt and blood caked his boots.

"You..." he panted. "Your mercenary group... really is as strong as they say. You deserve your reputation."

Lumberling didn’t answer.

His eyes weren’t on Gerald.

They were locked on the elf girl in the caravan.

Still chained. Still curled up. Still not speaking.

The wind caught her silver-white hair, brushing it across her bruised cheek. She didn’t flinch.

Gerald followed his gaze and stiffened. He cleared his throat.

"She’s... property," he said quickly. "Of the Earl. A rare elf slave, apparently. We were ordered to deliver her to his estate. Nothing more."

He said it casually, but there was tension under his words, like he was testing how far he could push before provoking something.

Lumberling didn’t react.

Not outwardly.

But inside... the noise began.

’She’s a slave.’

’Be rational.’

’She’s not yours to save.’

’You took this contract.

You agreed.

You’re not a hero.

You’re a mercenary. You lead a legion.’

His jaw clenched.

’But you also have power now.’

He remembered the first time he’d seen her, caged in the black market auction in Novgord. Just a glance. She was pristine back then. Untouched, though still clearly owned.

Now...

Now, her wrists were raw from the manacles. Her ankles were scraped. Her eyes, once vibrant, now stared past everything, as if she was already gone inside.

He felt something stir in his chest. Not pity. Not guilt.

Something older. More primal.

A refusal.

Gerald cleared his throat again, this time firmer. "Commander Lux," he said. "You’re under contract. Deliver the cargo. That’s your job. You were paid for this."

Lumberling said nothing.

He just stared at her.

’She doesn’t deserve this.

But do I care enough to act? To throw everything away?’

’The Earl has power. Knight Stage Two at least under him. There will be consequences.’

’You’re dragging your men into it. You’ll make enemies. You’ll lose your name.’

Then her eyes lifted.

Just for a moment.

And for the first time... she saw him.

That was when it clicked.

He didn’t know if it was rage, or guilt, or something softer he didn’t have a name for, but he knew he wouldn’t walk away.

Not this time.

Not from her.

Gerald stepped closer. "I’m warning you. This is the Earl’s property. If you ruin this mission, the Ravenshades will..."

"The contract," Gerald repeated, voice hardening. "You will do your job..."

Lumberling looked at the girl one last time.

The silence around her said more than Gerald ever could.

He clenched his jaw. The Legion would follow him. The world might burn for it.

So be it.

"Fuck the contract!"

The words exploded from Lumberling’s throat.

And before Gerald could even register it...

Shhhk...

The tip of Lumberling’s spear punched through his gut.

Gerald’s eyes widened, lips parting in disbelief as he looked down at the weapon lodged through his stomach. Blood spilled across his armor.

"You..." he gasped. "You damned... fool..."

Lumberling’s face remained cold.

"No one chains someone like that and calls it a delivery," he said.

He twisted the spear.

Gerald collapsed.

(You have devoured the Quasi-Knight’s essence. 600 Essence absorbed. Absorbing a portion of the Quasi-Knight’s memories and experience.)

Lumberling stood over the corpse for a moment. Then calmly walked to the rear wagon, reached inside, and with one precise motion, snap, broke the elf’s chains.

She didn’t run.

Didn’t speak.

She simply stared at him, as if waiting to wake from a dream.

He turned to face his soldiers.

Rage simmered behind his eyes.

"Burn the contract."

Skitz blinked, caught off guard. "My Lord...?"

Lumberling’s voice dropped, low and absolute.

"Kill them all."

There was a beat of silence.

Skitz exhaled slowly and looked at his Lord.

There was no doubt in his eyes, Lumberling was serious.

Without a word, Skitz nodded.

No questions. No hesitation.

He drew his daggers. "You heard him. Kill them all."

Without hesitation, the Duskspire Legion turned on the baron’s soldiers.

Steel sang once more, but this time, it was one-sided.

Lumberling stood by the cart, shielding the elf with his body, watching as his soldiers carved through the hundred-men escort. The elite squads moved like stormclouds, clean, merciless, efficient.

By the time the sun dipped low again, only Duskspire remained standing.

The girl did not speak.

The chains were gone.

But the silence remained.

And yet

She was free

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