The Devouring Knight-Chapter 87 - 86: The Legion Wears Black

The morning sun had barely breached the treetops when the village gathered near the eastern ridge. Mist clung to the earth like a soft farewell, and the scent of pine drifted on the breeze.

Lumberling stood at the head of his formation, armor polished, cloak clasped, spear slung across his back. Behind him, fifty-nine elite soldiers and three golden eagles stood in perfect discipline. Skitz, Aren, Rogar, Gorrak, Trask, all ready.

Across from them stood Krivex, his group equally prepared. Packs secured, weapons sheathed, determination in their eyes.

The air buzzed with quiet tension. The kind that only came before a long road.

Lumberling turned first to his family.

Uncle Drake stood tall, arms crossed, but his eyes were heavier than usual.

"You sure about this?" Drake asked.

Lumberling nodded. "We’ll need eyes and ears in the empire. It starts here."

Drake stepped forward and clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Just remember... not all nobles fight fair. You’re strong, but don’t get cocky."

"I won’t," Lumberling said. "And I trust you to hold the line here."

Celine moved in next, a hand on her belly.

"Be careful," she said softly. "Come back in one piece. I want my child to meet you properly."

"I’ll be back before you know it," he said, gently resting a hand over hers.

Orrin offered a smirk and an elbow bump. "Bring back stories. Or trophies. Or both."

Old Man Dan just gave a gruff nod. "You’re doing something no one’s done before. That’s enough."

But it was Jen who hesitated.

She hugged him tight, tighter than he expected.

"Come back soon," she whispered. "You’re not allowed to die."

He smiled faintly and tousled her hair. "Bossy as ever."

Then came Skarn. The boar cavalry captain approached slowly, eyes locked with Lumberling’s.

"If this place falls while you’re gone," Skarn said, voice deep and gravelly, "it’ll be because the gods blinked."

Lumberling nodded. "Hold the gates. No matter what."

Grokk stepped forward next. He didn’t say a word, he never did when it mattered most. Instead, he held out a closed fist.

Lumberling bumped it once, solid and respectful. "Keep them safe."

Grokk grunted low, and that was answer enough.

Then, from the shadows of the nearby pines, Shade emerged.

Lumberling turned, and the spider approached on silent limbs, now towering and sleek in its Quasi-Knight form. Its mandibles clicked once, slow and deliberate. Its black eyes locked with Lumberling’s.

Lumberling stepped closer and touched its plated forehead.

"You know your task," he murmured. "This is your home too."

Shade dipped its head once, limbs folding inward in solemn affirmation.

Karnark stepped beside it, arms crossed but a half-smile on his face. "We’ll keep each other company," he said. "Shade’s not much of a talker, but neither am I."

Lumberling nodded. "That’s why it’ll work."

Then he turned to Krivex.

"Second base is yours," Lumberling said. "Make it a place they’ll envy."

Krivex gave a rare, quiet grin. "We’ll turn it into a fortress."

They clasped wrists once, firmly, two leaders, not just trusting each other, but entrusting their people.

With a sharp whistle, Krivex turned, and his formation began their march west, vanishing slowly into the tall shadows of the Blackroot Forest.

Lumberling watched them go.

He took one final look at the village, the mix of humans and monsters, of kin and comrades, still standing together beneath the rising sun.

Then he turned south.

"Formation," he said quietly.

The elite squads moved into formation behind him, each mounted on horseback. Overhead, golden eagles circled in silent watch. Weapons were secured, cloaks drawn tight, and every motion carried purpose.

It was time.

And ahead of them waited the Empire.

.....

After a week.

Turpan City greeted them with noise.

Lumberling left Aren and the elite squads outside the city, too many monster features to risk drawing attention.

Merchants barked deals in narrow alleys. Smoke coiled from food carts. Armored guards strode through mud-slicked streets.

But it was the eyes that watched them, eyes that lingered on the cloaked figures in silence that reminded Lumberling this wasn’t a village anymore.

This was the Empire.

He turned to Skitz. "We need supplies. Disguises. And information."

Skitz gave a quick nod and melted into the crowd without a word.

By late afternoon, they had what they needed, plain traveling cloaks, full-face masks, and padded gloves thick enough to hide ears, scales, and anything else that might betray them as non-human.

Lumberling returned to the outskirts and handed out the gear one by one. The elite squads, each the size of full-grown men, some even larger, slipped into their disguises with practiced ease.

The masks obscured their features. The cloaks disguised their builds. To the untrained eye, they looked like seasoned mercenaries traveling light.

And if someone looked too closely?

Lumberling had a plan for that too.

Aren adjusted his mask, testing the fit. "We’ll pass for mercs," he muttered. "Barely."

"Barely is all we need," Lumberling said. "We’re not here to make friends. Just to get through."

.....

At night.

They met with a merchant contact in a dim tavern, coin traded under the table, names not exchanged.

Lumberling leaned forward. "Where’s the nearest active mercenary guild that takes serious contracts?"

The merchant grunted. "City in Greyvale County. Guild sits just north of the central square. Ruled by Earl Daskir. Nasty bastard, but the war’s made him hungry for sell-swords. Pays well. No questions."

Skitz slid over another silver.

"Appreciated," he said.

.....

After weeks on the road, through misty woodlands, sun-scorched hills, and muddy valleys, the group finally reached Greyvale County, a fortified city nestled in a bowl of stone and smoke. Blackened chimneys crowned every rooftop, and the sharp scent of forge oil lingered thick in the air.

The city gates loomed tall. Guards barely glanced their way as Lumberling and Skitz approached on foot, cloaked and armored head to toe in jet-black steel. Behind them, the rest of their company waited outside the city perimeter, hidden beneath trees, their forms masked beneath layers of travelwear and silence.

"Same plan?" Skitz asked, his voice low under the brim of his hood.

Lumberling gave a single nod. "We get in. Register. Observe. No surprises."

The streets were busy but parted subtly around them. Citizens, merchants, and even mercenaries, the crowd parted in instinct, not respect, but like prey making way for something they didn’t quite understand. Two fully armored figures, heads down, black cloaks swirling at their heels, radiating strength without a word spoken, it wasn’t the kind of presence most people welcomed.

The Mercenary Guild was nestled between two taverns, a three-story brick building with faded banners bearing a sword-and-flame insignia. Inside, the lobby buzzed with noise, boisterous mercenaries, clinking coins, and the scratching of pens against paper. That buzz dulled the moment they stepped through the door.

Conversation faltered.

Heads turned.

And then, quiet.

The receptionist, a bespectacled woman in her forties with a practiced poker face, blinked once as they approached the desk. She opened her mouth, then closed it. Her hand instinctively reached for the registration forms.

"You here to apply?" she asked, voice carefully neutral.

"Yes," Lumberling said. His voice was calm, but it cut through the air like a drawn blade. "We’re registering a new company."

Skitz stepped up beside him, dropping "a worn leather satchel stamped with their insignia on the desk. "Duskspire Legion."

The woman nodded slowly and started filling in forms. "Number of active members?"

"Sixty-five," Skitz replied, crisp and professional.

"Any beasts or magical assets?"

"Three golden eagles," Lumberling answered. "Trained for reconnaissance."

The woman scribbled it down without raising her eyes. "You’ll need to undergo a strength verification. Standard protocol for higher-tier registration."

She gestured to a squat, iron-banded stand with a worn grip and a meter beside it, a strength-testing tool. Most mercs used it to prove they could lift more than a bundle of hay.

Lumberling stepped forward silently, removed one glove, and grasped the handle.

Crack.

The grip shattered in his hand, iron splitting with a metal scream. The meter snapped from its hinge and clattered to the floor.

A beat of silence. Then Skitz stepped up.

He grabbed the fractured remnants with his left hand, and crushed the rest of the device into twisted metal.

The receptionist stared at the ruin, blinking once more. Then slowly exhaled. "...Quasi-Knights," she whispered.

The room was dead silent. Even the loud mercenary at the corner table stopped mid-joke.

The receptionist straightened in her chair, grabbed a different form from beneath the counter, and slid it toward them with newfound speed and care. "You qualify for immediate enlistment. Duskspire Legion is now officially recognized under the Greyvale Mercenary Registry. You’re cleared for higher-class contracts and noble service... if you choose to accept them."

Lumberling signed with a firm stroke. Skitz followed suit, scrawling his sharp signature just beneath.

"You’ll be listed as a Black-Ranked Company," the woman added. "Meaning: high-risk, high-pay, high suspicion. That armor doesn’t exactly help, but with that strength, no one will question you for long."

Lumberling nodded. "That’s fine."

She handed them a stamped writ of registration, a folded parchment sealed in crimson wax.

"Welcome to the fold, Duskspire Legion."

Skitz smirked as they turned to leave. "I like the sound of that."

Outside, Lumberling stepped into the open air, the seal still warm in his gloved hand.

He looked south, toward the empire’s beating heart.

They were no longer nameless shadows.

Now, they were a banner.

A name.

Duskspire Legion.

And it had begun.

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