The Devouring Knight-Chapter 95 - 94: The Doctrine and the Knight

A Week Later - Mercenary Guild, Greyvale

The mercenary guild hall smelled of old wood, sweat, and ink, like parchment steeped in ambition and dried blood.

Most mercenaries clustered near the bar or the lower-level job boards. The war postings hung in a separate section, higher up on the wall, quieter. As if distance could keep danger at bay.

Lumberling stood in front of the war board, arms folded, cloak draped over one shoulder. The postings were slim. Most had already been taken by desperate bands looking for glory or coin. Others had been scratched out, presumed dead.

But one contract hadn’t moved.

Town Reclamation - South of Ferndell Ridge

Target: Sengolio Occupation Force

Estimated Enemy Count: Under 200 soldiers

Objective: Remove hostile control. Retake key junction town.

Reward: 600 gold coins + bonus for preserving key structures

Lumberling’s gloved hand hovered over the parchment, fingertips brushing the edge.

Clean ink. Fresh posting.

Too clean.

Behind him, Skitz leaned against the wall, one brow raised. "Ferndell’s barely more than a junction town. Roads, supply sheds, one old granary." He tapped the parchment with a knuckle. "No mention of Knights. Either that’s a blessing... or bait."

Lumberling’s eyes narrowed slightly. "War’s boiling, and no one’s snapped this up yet."

"Too quiet?" Skitz guessed.

"Exactly." Lumberling peeled the parchment free and folded it into his satchel. "We scout it first. No rush to walk into a blade."

Skitz smirked. "Getting cautious in your old age?"

"I’d rather be cautious than dead."

They moved away from the board just as another group passed by, young, eager mercs who glanced at the war postings but kept walking.

Skitz glanced over his shoulder at them. "Most mercs don’t touch anything with the word ’Sengolio’ on it now. Not after the last few weeks."

"Then they’re smart," Lumberling said flatly.

He stepped through the main doors and out into the city sunlight, boots echoing on the stone.

.....

Later that night - Duskspire base, war room

The map table was lit by a single lantern. Shadows danced across Ferndell Ridge, marked with red ink on the southern edge.

Aren tapped a finger on the town’s icon. "It’s mostly a transport point. Whoever controls Ferndell controls a key pass into the lower valleys."

"Could be why Sengolio wants it," Gorrak said, arms crossed.

"They’ve held it for weeks now," Rogar added. "No major push to reclaim it."

"That we know of," Trask muttered.

Lumberling leaned over the map, eyes scanning roads, elevations, and possible ambush points. "We’ll send the golden eagles out at first light. I want terrain readouts. Troop placements. Supply lines. If it’s under-defended, we strike. If not, we back off."

A beat passed.

Then Skitz broke the quiet with a grin. "So we’re doing it."

"We’re considering it," Lumberling corrected. "We don’t gamble with the Legion."

But in the pit of his stomach, that familiar heat stirred. The hunger to carve space. Not just to survive, but to rise.

A Sengolio-controlled town. No Knights listed. Coin on the table.

But more than that...

An opportunity.

If it was real.

If it wasn’t a trap.

If they could take it clean.

He looked around the room at the faces staring back. Hardened, hungry, waiting for orders.

....

Two Nights Later - Outskirts of Ferndell Ridge

Sengolio-Occupied Town

The moon hung low, a pale slit behind drifting clouds. In the dry gulley just beyond the tree line, Lumberling crouched behind a veil of scrub, one hand resting lightly on the ground. Beside him, Skitz adjusted the wrap around his blade to keep its edge silent.

The wind was still. The night smelled like dust, old wood, and oil.

Ahead, Ferndell Ridge sat like a sleeping beast, unaware or uncaring that something had begun to stir just beyond its reach.

The defenses were crude. Two uneven rows of wooden palisades ringed the perimeter, with torches placed too far apart to truly see between them. The guards walked slow, bored. Some slouched. One even leaned on his spear like it was a walking stick.

"They’ve held it too long without challenge," Skitz muttered. "Complacent. Soft."

Lumberling said nothing for a moment. His eyes scanned every shadow, every footfall, reading not just sight, but essence. The instincts of a thousand slain beasts whispered through his blood.

"No mana suppression fields," he murmured. "No aura cloaks. Their formation’s stretched thin too. Poor spacing between patrol rotations."

"You sense any Knights?" Skitz asked.

Lumberling shook his head. "No. Not even Quasi-Knights." He closed his eyes for a breath. "No heat in the air. No weight behind their presence. If there’s a commander worth anything in there, he’s hiding it well."

He pressed two fingers to the dirt. Cold. Undisturbed.

A predator’s quiet settled over him.

’I’ve felt the pressure of True Knights. The thunder in the air, the tension in the wind. But here? Nothing. Just men clinging to a war too far from their generals.’

"I don’t like that building over there," Skitz said, nodding toward a squat stone structure near the center of town. "Looks too well-kept. Could be the command post."

"Probably is," Lumberling replied. "We’ll take it early. Cripple their orders before they even know they’re under attack."

They lapsed into silence again. Somewhere far off, an owl screeched once, then stopped.

Lumberling’s gaze lingered on the broken watch patterns, the rust on the palisades, the worn boots of the patrols.

He could smell weakness.

And opportunity.

Skitz exhaled slowly. "So... we moving?"

Lumberling rose, slowly, like a blade drawn in silence.

"We march at dawn," he said, voice like cold iron. "Fast, quiet, brutal. Before their laziness turns to panic."

Skitz grinned faintly in the dark. "Always the poet."

But Lumberling’s eyes didn’t leave the town.

’No Knights. No mages. No reinforcements close enough to matter.’

He could feel it in his blood.

This was theirs for the taking.

......

The march began just before dusk.

Sixty-five warriors cloaked in black moved like a single organism through the underbrush. No chatter. No hesitation. Just breath, leather, and steel. The forest swallowed their presence.

Above, three golden eagles wheeled in silence, gliding on early thermals. One gave a sharp cry, twice in succession.

Confirmed. Sengolio force. Estimated number: under two hundred.

Lumberling raised a gloved fist.

The Legion halted at once.

A second signal, two fingers raised.

Positions.

The trap began to coil shut.

Within minutes, gray canisters arced from the ridge, smoke bombs bursting mid-air in thick, choking clouds. Confusion rippled through the Sengolio camp like a stone through water, shouts rang out, steel hissed from scabbards, men coughed and stumbled, blind in the haze.

Then came the bolts.

The ridgeline erupted in silent fury, rows of Duskspire archers released volley after volley of multi-shot crossbows. Precision fire. Arrows shrieked down like knives of judgment. Dozens fell before they even understood they were under attack.

"Now," Lumberling said quietly.

The word was a blade in the wind.

From the forest shadows, the elite squads surged like wolves released from a leash.

The battlefield dissolved into chaos.

Steel Against Steel

Aren’s spear punched through the chest of one soldier and knocked another into a tree.

He didn’t stop. With a fluid pivot, he spun the haft of his weapon and slammed the blunt end into a third opponent’s jaw, shattering bone. Blood misted the air as he moved forward, eyes calm, focused. No wasted strikes. Just clean, lethal precision.

Rogar’s twin-headed spear cleaved a path through four men in a blur of spinning iron.

He roared like a beast as he charged, body low, the weight of his strikes knocking foes into one another like dominoes. One man raised a shield, Rogar didn’t slow. The spear crushed through wood, iron, and ribcage with equal ease. His advance was unstoppable, a wall of motion and steel.

Gorrak moved like a hammer golem, breaking lines with raw force.

Each swing of his massive maul left dents in the earth and craters in armor. He blocked a sword strike with his forearm, took the hit without flinching, then grabbed the attacker by the collar and slammed him into the ground hard enough to shake the dirt. He didn’t speak. Just fought, each blow echoing like a war drum.

Trask slipped through gaps like wind, twin blades cutting through armor like parchment.

He ducked under a wild swing, his first blade slicing a tendon, the second flashing upward to catch the throat. Blood sprayed, but he was already gone, dancing to the next target. He fought like a ghost given form, silent, elegant, terrifying. One soldier swung wildly in panic. Trask sidestepped and whispered, "Too slow," before the man fell in two.

A Sengolio soldier fled, screaming, his cloak aflame, only to trip and vanish beneath Gorrak’s hammer like a nail under a smith’s blow.

Then, pressure.

Lumberling turned.

Two silhouettes emerged from the fog, walking side by side. The air seemed to tense around them. Their presence was heavier, more controlled. These were no common officers.

Quasi-Knights.

The first, tall, lean, clad in dark iron, stepped into the center with a spear gripped like an extension of his spine. His gaze locked onto Lumberling’s.

The second launched leftward toward Duskspire’s flank.

"I’ve got him," Skitz said, already gone. His twin blades flashed as he intercepted mid-leap, blades clashing in a hiss of sparks. Their duel vanished into the smoke.

Lumberling’s own opponent came forward with practiced grace, twirling his spear once before planting its end against the earth.

"A fellow spear-wielder, eh?" the man said, smirking beneath a silver-chased helm. "Let’s see if your style’s worth remembering."

Lumberling didn’t reply. He slid into stance, low, wide, anchored. A monster’s posture. Not born from drills or duels, but instinct. Blood-tested.

His mind focused.

’Time to test it. Spearheart Doctrine... against a spearman Quasi-Knight.’

The clash was instant.

Spear met spear. Sparks danced.

The Quasi-Knight was skilled, each strike calculated, refined. But Lumberling fought like no soldier he had ever seen. He was fluid and brutal, his rhythm shifting without pattern. Every movement borrowed, tactics honed not from academies, but from monsters: gnolls, direwolves, lizarmen, and jackals...

A pivot became a lunge. A parry became a feint. His spear spun in wild arcs, crashing down like a club, then snapping forward like a stinger.

The Quasi-Knight grunted as the force slammed into his guard, driving him back three steps.

’What the hell am I fighting?’ he thought, jaw clenched.

Sweat slid down the man’s temple. It wasn’t just strength. It was unpredictability, like sparring a dozen beasts at once, each with different killing intent.

"This isn’t human technique," the commander growled.

Lumberling’s eyes were cold. "That’s because I learned it from monsters."

Another exchange, brutal and fast.

The Quasi-Knight’s spear lashed out, but Lumberling turned his body with inhuman smoothness, letting the blade whistle past his ribs. His own spear struck like lightning.

Clang.

Clash.

Crunch.

With each impact, the Quasi-Knight’s footing faltered. His stance began to fray.

Lumberling pressed forward, relentless. His Spearheart Doctrine, though only at Level 7, combined with his overwhelming physique and devoured battle instincts, created a style no trained soldier could read on first contact.

’If this were a drawn-out duel, he might adapt,’ Lumberling thought. ’But he won’t last that long.’

With a sudden twist, he slid under the man’s thrust and drove his spear upward into the soft gap beneath the shoulder guard.

Blood spurted.

The commander cried out, stumbling back.

Lumberling followed through, twisting his weapon free and spinning it once before leveling it again.

"You won’t be the last Quasi-Knight I face," he said quietly.

"But you’ll be the first I bury."

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