The Devouring Knight-Chapter 80 - 79: Loyalty and the Spear

The battlefield crackled with tension.

Steel clashed in the background. Smoke hung thick in the air. But to Lumberling, the world narrowed to a single moment, a figure trembling behind the protective stance of an old man in battered armor.

The young Sengolio noble.

His eyes were wide, face pale with disbelief, lips twitching with fear.

Lumberling recognized him immediately.

He’s the one. The one who hurt Shade.

The spider’s damaged limbs. Its missing leg. The scent of trauma burned into its shell, this was the man responsible.

Skitz slid to his side, eyes glinting. "My Lord, let’s take him out together. That knight’s aura... it’s heavy. He’s at the peak. Just a breath away from becoming a full Knight."

Lumberling’s voice was calm, but resolute. "No. Stay back this time, Skitz."

Skitz blinked. "Huh? Why?"

"I need to test myself," Lumberling said, stepping forward. "We’ll be facing stronger enemies soon. If I can’t overcome this... then I’m not ready."

Skitz studied his Lord for a moment, then gave a slow nod. He remembered their sparring sessions. Even when Lumberling held back, Skitz had barely kept up.

He was curious too.

"...Alright," Skitz said. "I’ll watch the lines. But if anything happens..."

"Then help them," Lumberling finished, his voice low.

With a last look, Skitz faded into the shadows, leaving Lumberling to face the old knight.

Across the field, the old knight shifted his stance.

His aged eyes sharpened, reading Lumberling’s movements. The boy, no, the man approached with a relaxed gait, but the pressure rolling off him wasn’t casual.

’This one’s different,’ the knight thought. ’Not just powerful. Wild. Controlled. Unnatural.’

They didn’t speak.

Lumberling lunged first.

His spear lashed out in a flash, sharp and precise. The old knight parried, stepping into a pivot and countering with a downward slash.

CLANG!

The force rippled through the ground.

Lumberling didn’t recoil. He spun with the recoil, redirected the momentum, and lashed out with a back-kick that carried the weight of a charging boar.

The old man grunted, barely deflecting it with the flat of his blade.

’He’s strong. Too strong for his frame. That’s not human technique’

Lumberling’s stance changed mid-motion. His next strike came from a crouch, the spear scraping the ground before whipping upward like a serpent. Then his posture shifted again, a textbook thrust, like one from the Knight Dojo.

’He’s blending stances. Beast techniques... Knight forms?’

The old knight parried, stepped in with a sharp riposte, only for his sword to clash against Lumberling’s vambrace. A shock jolted up his arm.

Then came the tail swipe, no, it was a kick, but coiled like a lizard’s tail.

The old knight stumbled back, sweat beading down his forehead.

Lumberling’s eyes never left him. Focused. Relentless. Curious.

"You’ve fought well," Lumberling murmured.

The knight exhaled. "You’re no monster. But you’re not quite human either."

They clashed again.

Steel rang. Sparks flew.

But slowly, surely, the knight fell behind.

Lumberling’s style changed with every breath. From grounded to agile. From feral to disciplined. It was a maelstrom of experiences, like a dozen fighters lived within him.

The knight’s sword faltered for the first time. A shallow cut opened along his arm.

His breathing grew ragged.

Then, in one clean motion, Lumberling disarmed him.

The spearhead hovered at the old knight’s throat.

"I yield," the knight said, calm even in defeat.

But before Lumberling could speak, a screech tore through the air.

"YOU FUCKING MONSTERS!" the young noble barked, charging forward with a gleaming shortsword. "Do you know who I am?! I’m the son of a Viscount!"

Skitz dropped from a tree branch, landing between the noble and Lumberling.

He cracked his neck. "What’re you yapping about?"

He raised his dagger.

"Wait," Lumberling said, stepping between them.

He addressed the noble in fluent Sengolio. "You’re a noble? What house?"

The noble sneered. "So you can speak. Good. I’m the third son of Viscount Gantarel. If you kill me, my father will hunt you down to the edge of the world."

Lumberling’s eyes narrowed.

’Viscount... higher than a baron. Likely has at least one Knight-one Stage under his banner.’

’If this brat makes it home, they’ll investigate. They’ll find the village.’

"I see," Lumberling said softly.

Then he turned to Skitz.

"Kill him."

The old knight staggered forward, planting himself between the spear and the boy.

"No," he rasped. "He yields too. He... he’s just a fool. Spare him."

Lumberling blinked once, then lowered his spear a few degrees, not out of mercy, but calculation.

The noble was screaming again, spit flying. "I don’t need your protection, old man! I’ll gut them all myself!"

He shoved past the knight.

"No!" the old man started, arm outstretched.

Too late.

The blade was already moving.

The spear flashed.

A sharp crack of impact.

The young noble’s body crumpled, the life gone from his eyes before he hit the ground. A clean, brutal stroke, Lumberling hadn’t hesitated.

The old knight caught the body before it fully collapsed, lowering it to the ground with trembling hands.

Blood seeped through his gloves.

The battlefield sounds dulled, steel, screams, thunderous hooves, all became a distant hum.

He stared at the corpse.

"...Stupid boy," he whispered.

Then, softer, as if speaking to memory itself:

"Madam Venice... I failed you."

The silence between them thickened, shrouded in ash, blood, and something heavier than either.

Lumberling stood still, his spear tip low, expression unreadable.

The old knight gently laid the noble’s body on the ground and rose with effort. His sword was still somewhere in the mud, but he didn’t reach for it.

His knees cracked as he stood straight, as straight as age allowed.

"I have no fight left," he said, voice like gravel ground under boot. "But I won’t beg."

He looked at Lumberling, not with hate, not even anger.

Only weariness.

"Just... make it clean."

Lumberling took a slow breath. His hand didn’t shake.

"You were strong," he said.

"You were better," the old knight replied. "Too many styles. Too fast. You’re not what this world expects."

"I don’t intend to be."

The knight gave a tired nod.

"Then I hope the world breaks before you do."

For a moment, they simply stood there, two warriors, years apart, bridged by steel and silence.

Then the spear moved.

A blur of motion.

The tip pierced the knight’s heart clean through the chest.

The old knight grunted, a sharp breath exhaled... and nothing more.

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

Lumberling caught the body before it fell.

Gently.

He laid it beside the fallen noble.

Lumberling didn’t look away from the corpse. He didn’t feel regret. But he did feel weight, like the spear had gone through more than just flesh.

Two generations. One bloodline. One broken promise.

He stared down at them both, lips pressed in a firm line.

"You were loyal," he murmured. "But you stood on the wrong side."

Blood pooled at his feet.

"What was he saying?" Skitz asked, wiping his blade.

Lumberling flicked blood off his spear. "Son of a Viscount."

Skitz frowned. "Won’t that cause trouble?"

"It might," Lumberling admitted. "But letting him live would cause more. If he reports what he saw... we’ll have a real war on our hands. Better a dead noble in the forest than an army at our doorstep."

"And besides," Lumberling muttered, "we’re still inside the Pentaline Empire. Even if trouble comes... it won’t come quickly."

Krivex approached from the treeline, flanked by Gobo1 and Skarn.

"It’s over," he said.

"No," Lumberling replied, turning toward the fading smoke. "It’s just begun."

The source of this c𝐨ntent is fre𝒆w(e)bn(o)vel