The Devouring Knight-Chapter 48 - 47: The Howl Before the War

Everything was going well—until troubling news arrived from Krivex’s scouts.

"My Lord," Krivex reported, "our scouts have spotted a massive group of monsters—wolves—moving through the forest toward our territory. It appears they’re migrating."

’Monsters migrating... Could it be the war’s affecting them too?’

"Did they confirm the numbers?" Lumberling asked.

"We can’t say for certain, but they estimated several hundred—possibly close to a thousand. And they’re no more than three days’ travel from the village."

"That many..." Lumberling muttered. "With numbers like that, their leader must be strong. At least Knight Apprentice level—possibly more."

If there was one thing Lumberling had learned, it was this: the larger the pack, the stronger the alpha. And if the wolves were migrating, they likely wouldn’t venture deeper into the forest. Stronger monsters ruled those territories. Instead, they’d seek out areas like his—less crowded, more vulnerable.

"This isn’t just a chance encounter," he said. "This is the start of a war."

He looked out over the training field where his soldiers practiced their drills. They had planned to hunt monsters—but now the monsters were coming to them.

’Still, a thousand is a lot... Can we really win? No—we will win. This isn’t so different from the forest.’

He stepped forward and raised his voice.

"Attention, everyone!"

All eyes turned to him.

"Our scouts have discovered a migrating wolf horde approaching our territory. Nearly a thousand strong. A clash is inevitable. But do not be afraid. We have trained for this day. These beasts are nothing more than fuel for our growth waiting to be harvested!"

A surge of cheers erupted.

"We will follow the Lord!"

"They’re just dogs in our yard!"

"All hail the Lord!"

Morale soared. And now Lumberling understood why generals gave "cringey" speeches before battle—they worked.

One Week Later

As expected, the wolves had settled near their border. They had tried to go deeper into the forest but quickly learned that stronger predators already held those lands. Driven back, the pack claimed the territory near the goblin village—land that was already spoken for.

Two forces, one forest. Only one would rule.

.....

In the shadows near the wolves’ new encampment, Lumberling’s elite soldiers waited. They assembled a strike force of fifty elite soldiers, all mounted on boar cavalry bred for speed and ferocity.

Alongside them rode Lumberling, Skitz, and every captain who had advanced into warrior or berserker ranks. This was no full assault—this was a precision operation. Their objective: slash the enemy’s numbers before the larger battle could begin.

"Stick to the plan. Speed is everything. Retreat the moment I give the signal."

They moved silently. Skitz had cast Whispering Veil to cloak them in deception, and the enemy hadn’t sensed a thing.

Then—charge.

The boars thundered forward, tusks lowered, crashing into the unsuspecting wolves. Screams and growls echoed through the trees.

Skitz and the captains tore into the enemy lines with deadly coordination.

Aren danced with his spear, elegant and precise, like a knight trained from birth.

Krivex picked off wolves from afar, arrows piercing eyes with unnatural speed.

Takkar rampaged through the chaos, twin axes soaked in blood.

Gobo1 and Gobo2 fought back-to-back, cutting down any wolves that got close.

Gorrak’s hammer cracked bones and caved in skulls with every swing.

Skitz moved like a shadow—appearing behind a wolf, slitting its throat, and vanishing again.

Lumberling, meanwhile, struck from another flank, cutting down wolf after wolf, his essence devour skill activating with each kill.

(You have devoured the Wolf’s essence. 10 essence absorbed.)

(You have devoured the Wolf’s essence...)

(You have devoured the Wolf’s essence...)

Then came the howl.

"Awooooo!"

The wolves had realized the ambush.

"Smoke bombs—retreat!" Skitz bellowed.

Boom. Hiss. Thick plumes of smoke erupted, confusing the beasts.

As the cavalry retreated through the brush, one of the boars screamed—a sharp, high-pitched squeal of panic. A younger goblin rider, was thrown from the saddle as his mount tumbled, its leg caught in a hidden root. A wolf lunged from the side, jaws wide, eyes burning.

Skitz turned mid-run. "Damn it!"

But someone moved faster.

Aren.

He spun his spear once, drove it deep into the leaping wolf’s chest with a practiced jab, then grabbed the goblin by the arm and hauled him upright.

"You good, rookie?" he asked, breathless.

The goblin nodded, trembling, his mouth working without sound.

Aren cracked a grin—but then looked down at his own spear. The blade was chipped. Cracked. He ran a thumb over it.

"Better not fall apart now, you piece of junk."

Behind them, more wolves poured in.

"Move!" Skitz barked, throwing a smoke bomb behind them. "Cover them!"

Gray plumes exploded outward. The sound dulled, replaced by hacking growls and disoriented howls. Shadows danced inside the smoke like ghosts.

The group surged forward. The goblin mounted another boar, and the retreat continued.

"Retreat in order! One by one—maintain formation!"

Under Skitz’s command, the boar cavalry withdrew with discipline. Skitz and the other captains remained behind until all their men were clear. Lumberling was the last to retreat, still carving a bloody path until the circle around him tightened—then sprint, and he was gone.

But the wolves gave chase.

Which was exactly what they wanted.

Lumberling and Skitz led them through terrain filled with hidden traps and ambush teams.

Arrows rained from trees.

Spike pits opened underfoot.

Tripwires triggered nets and falling logs.

Lumberling himself struck at the pursuers in hit-and-run bursts, luring them deeper and deeper.

’This reminds me of the old forest days,’ he thought with a grin, stabbing another wolf mid-leap.

Eventually, the wolf leaders caught on. Realizing they were being bled dry, they howled for retreat, pulling back what forces remained.

At the end of the ambush route—as the last arrows silenced the pursuit—Lumberling stood still in a clearing, blood streaking his cheek.

Across from him, a single wolf limped into view. It wasn’t part of the main group. Its left eye was missing, a gash ran down its side, and its breathing came ragged and wet. Yet it still growled, low and defiant.

The forest hushed.

Lumberling didn’t move for a heartbeat. The air between them crackled with tension—man and beast, both refusing to yield.

Then he lunged. One clean thrust. The spear pierced through fur, bone, silence.

The wolf collapsed.

Lumberling stood over it, chest rising and falling. For a moment, it all fell quiet again.

"War doesn’t care if you’re brave," he muttered to himself. "Only if you’re fast enough."

He wiped his blade and turned back to his troops.

Back at the rally point, Lumberling regrouped with his captains.

"How’d it go on your end?" he asked.

"It went smoothly, my Lord. We cut them down before they could react," Skitz reported, beaming with pride.

"Good. I took out a few myself. By my count, we’ve reduced their numbers by at least two hundred."

The others nodded. The mission had been a success. They had struck first—and struck hard.

"But this won’t work again," Lumberling said, his tone serious. "Next time, they’ll come prepared."

He turned to Krivex. "Send the eagle scouts. I want to know everything—where they move, when they hunt, how they regroup. If they’re planning a counterattack, we need to see it before it hits us."

"Understood, my Lord. We’ll fly before nightfall."

"Good. Recall the troops. We return to the village before sundown."

The group moved out, carrying sacks of wolf meat and materials—spoils of a battle well fought.

...

The fires in the village crackled low, casting long shadows across the training yard now turned triage camp. A dozen wounded goblins and kobolds lay on makeshift cots—some groaning, others silent, too exhausted to speak. Blood had dried on cloth bandages, and the scent of poultice herbs filled the air.

Lumberling moved between them with steady hands. He wasn’t a healer, but he’d dressed enough wounds in war to know what needed doing.

He knelt beside a goblin with a broken arm, carefully tightening the splint Skitz had helped wrap. The goblin winced.

"I know," Lumberling said quietly. "Breathe through it."

The goblin obeyed, trembling.

Nearby, another goblin sat cross-legged, his arm in a sling, face pale. He tried to avoid eye contact.

Lumberling walked over and crouched.

"You rode well today," he said.

"I fell," the goblin muttered.

"And you got back up. That’s what matters." He paused, then offered a water flask. "Drink. You’ll ride again."

The goblin took it with both hands.

Lumberling rose and surveyed the camp. Some of the injured were already asleep. Others nodded quietly as he passed. He stopped at the edge of the firelight, looking back at the wounded, then toward the forest where the wolves had vanished.

"This is just the beginning," he murmured. "We survive tonight. We get stronger tomorrow."

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