The Devouring Knight

From the other sides of the city, horns echoed low, mournful notes that cut through the night. The surviving Vikings were pulling back. At the front gate, Skarn's battered group finally disengaged. To the south, Eldric's group stood bloodied but unbroken, watching their foes retreat step by step into the dark.

The captains, weapons still slick with blood, stood at the forest's edge. No one lowered their guard.

"They're… leaving?" one goblin soldier muttered.

"Looks like it," another answered, spitting onto the dirt, his knuckles still white around his sword.

For the first time, they had survived against more than just soldiers and Knights. Tonight, they had proven themselves.

And though their bodies ached and their wounds burned, victory's weight settled over them like a heavy cloak.

They had won.

...

On the eastern side, Derrek's eyes flicked toward Lumberling, lingering for just a breath. Relief crossed his blood-smeared face, though he masked it quickly beneath a tired scowl.

When both returned to the city walls, the captains and their units were already gathered, waiting. Torches cast long shadows across tired faces, armor dented and stained with blood.

What surprised Lumberling was the sight Skitz and Krivex brought with them.

Two Rúnbringers and a Spirit-Bound Viking lay unconscious on the ground, their massive frames bound in thick chains. One of the Rúnbringers had been dragged in by Krivex himself, while Skitz had captured the other along with the Spirit-Bound Viking.

Skitz's group on the western side must have had the lightest resistance. Without a True Knight-level enemy to deal with, his forces had cut through with relative ease.

Derrek's brow furrowed as he eyed the prisoners. "You… took them alive?" he asked, confused. It wasn't common practice in battles like this.

Skitz only shrugged. "Not prisoners," he said, smirking. "Meals." He didn't bother explaining further, his sharp grin widening as he turned to Lumberling with a proud glint in his eyes.

Lumberling met his gaze, giving a single approving nod. "Good job not killing them."

Murmurs rippled through the gathered human soldiers as they stared at the chained giants.

One soldier stepped forward, disbelief thick in his voice. "A Rúnbringer… alive? We've never taken one of their kind before." His words hung heavy in the air, drawing every gaze to the unconscious Vikings.

Even the veterans, men who had carved their way through a hundred battles, looked shaken. Capturing such foes wasn't victory. it was unthinkable.

Lumberling turned to the gathered captains and soldiers. Many stood bloodied and bruised, armor cracked, some leaning on their weapons for support. The air was heavy with the stink of blood and sweat.

Krivex stepped forward, his tone steady despite the weariness in his eyes. "Three from the hunter unit… and four from the boar cavalry didn't make it."

A hush fell over the square. No one shouted, no one wept. They were soldiers, and they knew death was part of their path. Still, the silence carried its own weight, a shared respect for the fallen.

Krivex broke it with a low voice. "We'll burn their bodies before dawn."

Lumberling gave a small nod. He didn't speak empty words of comfort; his men didn't need them. They all understood the truth, five lives had been taken tonight. Out of three hundred and forty-five, their numbers still stood strong. Compared to the Vikings who had lost hundreds, it was a victory. But even so… a loss was a loss.

Lumberling's gaze swept over the weary faces before him. "Stay sharp. The fight may be over, but keep your eyes open tonight. Just in case."

The captains saluted in silence.

Without another word, Lumberling turned and made his way back toward his quarters.

…..

Lumberling sat cross-legged in the dim glow of an oil lamp. The battlefield outside had gone silent, but his mind hadn't. His thoughts drifted back to the fragments of memory he had devoured. Like broken shards, they didn't form the full picture, but when pieced together, they revealed the framework of Elijah's path, the Viking's path.

Advancement at each stage rested on three key factors.

First, God's Blessing, the Divine Favor.

Every Viking was touched by their gods. That blessing wasn't static, it grew with deeds that pleased their patron, blood spilled in battle, sacrifices burned in fire, feats that echoed in song. Their gods watched, weighed, and rewarded.

Second, Totemic or Runic Attunement, the Spiritual Progress.

Vikings didn't rely on manuals, drills, or teachers. Their strength came from bonds forged with the totem spirits and ancient runes carved into their very being. A wolf spirit lent speed and feral instinct. A bear gave crushing endurance. A raven whispered warnings of what was to come, while a serpent gifted cunning and patience.

But such spirits weren't handed freely. A warrior seeking one had to venture into wild places, burial mounds, lonely mountains haunted by old gods. There, the spirit tested them. If the Viking survived, bled, or sacrificed enough, the bond was sealed. It wasn't just a blessing. It was a pact, a second soul twined with their own.

And lastly, Cultural Rites and Trials, the Clan Recognition.

Strength alone didn't make a Viking ascend. Even if blessed and bonded, they had to prove themselves through feats recognized by their people, raiding a fortress, cities, villages, surviving the deep winter, or winning a blood-duel against their kin. Without such feats, there was no title, no stage, no matter their power.

Perhaps this was why they marched to join the war. Not merely for the 'artifact', but because the hunger for trial was etched into their very bones. To them, battle was not just survival, it was ascension.

Lumberling exhaled slowly, pressing his thumb along the shaft of his spear resting across his knees. For a heartbeat, his vision sharpened unnaturally, every ripple of the flame, every faint crack of wood outside the walls seared into his awareness.

Then it was gone, leaving only the quiet room and the steady thrum of his pulse. "So that's how their strength is built…" he muttered. Different from his path, but not without merit.

For a moment, he let himself linger on it, Einherjar's Path, as the Vikings named it. A road he could devour, study, perhaps even walk himself. The thought tempted him, but he pushed it aside. Not now.

Blessing he already possessed, but to earn totems or runes, to endure rites and trials recognized by Viking's clans, those would demand time he could not yet give.

He already bore too many roads on his shoulders. His mage path, steadily moving toward the Concordant State, perhaps four months more.

His Mindseal cultivation, tempering his mind as steel. His body cultivation, every scar a furnace to harden his flesh. And above all, his Knight path, so close now, just one step from the True Knight Stage.

Lumberling's hand tightened on the spear. "One thing at a time," he whispered to himself. The Vikings' way could wait. For now, he would finish what he had already begun.