The Devouring Knight

At the Baron's name, Elandor's brows lifted slightly, though his eyes remained sharp. "Baron Roland… unusual for him to employ monsters." His gaze flicked over the captains again, assessing. "But in times such as these, one cannot be choosy. Every sword counts."

The young knight's voice carried clearly, calm but edged with command. "Why are you here?"

Eldric straightened in his saddle, answering before anyone else could. "Vikings attacked our city not long ago, Young Lord. We're scouting the nearby towns and villages to see how far the damage has spread."

Elandor's eyes narrowed slightly, thoughtful. "I see… so your city has tasted their savagery as well." His tone shifted, harder now. "We are pursuing an injured Viking that escaped after destroying a city and slaying a Baron, a man who stood at the strength of Knight Two Stage."

At that, Lumberling spoke for the first time, his voice steady. "A Battle-Seiðr."

Elandor's head snapped toward him, eyes flashing with surprise. "You know of the Viking stages?"

Lumberling gave a small nod. "When they struck our walls, I felt a presence that was… overwhelming. It radiated the same pressure I feel from you now."

The knight studied him carefully, weighing the words. "It didn't attack you?"

"No," Lumberling said simply.

Elandor's jaw tightened, though his expression remained composed. 'Maybe it didn't want to reveal itself… or perhaps its wounds still chained it down,' he thought, his gaze flickering briefly toward the road ahead.

After a long pause, he gave a curt nod. "Then remain vigilant. If you cross paths with it again, do not engage. Even seasoned knights would struggle."

He turned his horse, raising his hand. At once, the disciplined rows of Crowhurst soldiers shifted, boots pounding in unison as they followed their young lord. Dust rose in their wake as the great column resumed its march.

Lumberling and his captains watched them go. The earth trembled faintly under the passing of two thousand men, until at last the sound of marching feet grew distant and only silence remained on the road.

The weight of Elandor's warning lingered long after they parted, but the road left no time for brooding. Trouble came swiftly on the waves.

...

As days goes by the bond between Lumberling and Baron Roland only grew stronger. What began as a partnership of convenience quickly became an alliance.

Whenever Sengolio patrols or raiding bands drew near the city, it was Lumberling's men who struck first.

His golden eagles circled high above, watching the roads, sending word back with sharp cries. Guided by their eyes, his forces moved like shadows, appearing and vanishing without ever revealing their full strength.

Knights and soldiers alike fell beneath their spears and blades, and each battle left Lumberling's essence pool richer, his power swelling bit by bit.

On one march, they stumbled upon a cluster of pirates. For a moment, some of his soldiers tensed, remembering the brutal fight in Drosvain City. But these were nothing like the horrors they had faced there.

The strongest among them barely reached the stage of a God-Touched Viking, a strength equal to a Knight Page. Against Lumberling's trained warriors, they were swept aside like dried leaves in a storm.

When the fight ended, four of his chosen stepped forward. Two Hobgoblin warriors, Thurgan and Kren, their eyes alight with the hunger to grow stronger. Alongside them, two newly evolved Kobold Berserkers, Drekk and Lorven, growled with anticipation.

Lumberling extended his hand, drawing the essence of the fallen into them.

Their roars echoed through the camp that night, fierce and proud, as the power of the Vikings settled into their veins.

As he had done with the first group, he set them upon the same journey, each one bound to tread the Einherjar's Path.

Meanwhile, Lumberling's own progress never slowed. Day by day, he trained between battles, honing every edge of his strength. Each drop of essence, each clash of steel, pushed him further.

(Beginner Flowing Edge has reached Level 4. Power +173)

(Beginner Dual Wielding Axe has reached Level 1. Power +100)

…..

But not all battles wore armor. Beyond the chaos, the war's shadow fell in quieter forms, starving faces, gaunt and desperate.

Lumberling passed through the narrow street of the city, the air thick with the smell of smoke and unwashed bodies. Refugees huddled in every corner, men with hollow eyes, women clutching their children, and children who cried until their voices rasped.

Two boys scrabbled in the dirt over a crust of bread, teeth bared like starving dogs. A girl no older than ten sat beside them, her face streaked with tears as she tried to shield her younger brother.

Without a word, Lumberling reached into his satchel and pulled out a bundle of dried meat. He crouched, holding it out. The girl froze, staring up at him. Her wide eyes lingered on his armor, on the faint gleam of his weapon, as if she couldn't believe someone like him would stoop to her level.

Slowly, with trembling hands, she took the food and pressed it tight against her chest. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice so soft it barely carried.

Her brother clutched at her sleeve, already gnawing at the meat. Around them, heads turned, hungry eyes watching, some desperate, some ashamed.

Lumberling's men tensed, instinctively shifting closer, but he only shook his head and drew out another small sack of grain. He handed it to a gaunt woman nearby. She clutched it like treasure, bowing her head so low her tangled hair brushed the dirt. "Bless you, lord… bless you."

For a moment, the crowd was hushed. The sound of children chewing filled the air.

Lumberling straightened, his expression unreadable, but his chest tightened as he looked over the rows of hollow faces. This was not victory. This was survival, and it was fragile.

Baron Roland saw him too.

"You shouldn't…" the Baron began, shame flickering in his eyes. "It's my duty to provide, not yours."

Lumberling only gave a small shrug. "Duty or not, hungry mouths won't wait. If we can ease their suffering, we should."

Roland lowered his head. Pride warred with gratitude, but in the end he accepted it. "You shame me, Lord Lumberling… but I'll accept, for their sake."

As the days stretched on, more and more refugees arrived, drawn to the promise of safety. The city swelled, its streets crowded with the displaced, the broken, and the desperate.

Lumberling had seen this before, when people gathered without guidance and chaos began to take root. But this time he did not step in. Instead, he left the burden of order to the Baron.

And Roland rose to it. With resources Lumberling supplied, he proved more than capable. He organized food lines, set the guards to keep peace, and even found work for some of the stronger refugees to ease tensions. The city, though strained, did not break.

Watching quietly from the shadows of the wall, Lumberling felt a flicker of respect. 'Yes… he can bear this weight. He is not just a lord in name.'