The Devouring Knight
Chapter 110 - 109: Names We Carry

Chapter 110: Chapter 109: Names We Carry

The battlefield was silent.

Ash floated in the wind like mourning snow. Corpses, friend and foe, littered the ground. The Earl’s army had been annihilated, their banners torn, their chain of command shattered. There were no survivors left to surrender.

It was finished. The war, the charge, the dying, it was all done.

Lumberling stood amid the wreckage, his cracked spear digging into the earth just to keep himself upright. Smoke stung his eyes, and every breath tasted of iron and ash. Around him, the wounded groaned, and medics moved swiftly among the fallen. Shade lay nearby, a web of blood drying across his dark carapace, mandibles twitching in exhaustion. Skitz slumped against a half-burnt log, one eye swollen shut, the other watching.

And then came footsteps, rhythmic, disciplined, alive.

From the treeline, shapes emerged through the haze, blood-streaked, weapons drawn. Alive. Krivex led them, his red armor flaring in the smoke-glow like an omen. Gobo1 and Gobo2 carried wounded over their shoulders, still blood-slick but grinning.

"You bastards took your sweet time," Skitz muttered, voice rasping through cracked lips. "Another minute and we’d have been party favors."

Krivex chuckled as he approached, his blood-red armor streaked with soot and gore. "Didn’t know you lot loved inviting chaos," he said, his tone playful, but his eyes scanned the field with quiet gravity. "Rejoice. The great us arrived to bail you out."

Despite the bravado, Lumberling caught the tension in his voice, the relief. They had made it. Barely.

"If you’d come any later..." Lumberling said, still staring past them, his voice barely above a whisper, "we would’ve all been corpses."

Krivex nodded solemnly, then looked over to Jason’s body, now still, empty, speared through the chest. "So... that was a True Knight," he muttered, almost in disbelief. "He bled like any other man."

"Ate like one too," Skitz said, cracking a grin. "Shade almost got skewered, but the bastard didn’t like spider legs."

Shade chittered softly in protest, still too drained to do more.

Krivex wiped a line of blood from his chin. "Do you think we could take more of them? True Knights, I mean."

Lumberling looked down at his hands, still trembling. He remembered Jason’s final laugh, the look in his eyes when the spear pierced through. The essence he devoured still lingered inside him, memories, rage, pride... and fear. Not just Jason’s.

His own.

"We survived," Lumberling said, his voice low. "But fighting more? That wasn’t a battle. That was a miracle wrapped in sacrifice."

He turned toward the others, locking eyes with each of them.

"We can fight again. We will fight again. But next time, we need to be stronger."

Krivex nodded. "Then we train. We rebuild."

Skitz leaned back, groaning. "After I sleep for a year. Or die. Whichever comes first."

Shade finally let out a low huff, his large frame sinking fully into the dirt.

And for a moment, just a breath in the aftermath of slaughter, the silence returned, this time, not from death.

But peace.

.....

Twilight draped the battlefield in dim gold.

Crows circled above, the scent of blood still fresh in the churned earth. What once echoed with war cries now whispered with wind and grief.

Lumberling stood near the hill overlooking the field, a weathered tally board in hand. Krivex approached silently beside him, both men staring at the inked list neither wanted to complete.

"Fifty-seven," Lumberling muttered. "We had fifty-seven before the battle."

Krivex exhaled through his nose, wiping soot from his brow. "And how many now?"

Lumberling looked down at the count again. His voice dropped, almost to a whisper.

"Thirty-nine died... from the new recruits. They never stood a chance."

The words sank between them like stones. Those young goblins and kobolds, barely trained, some fresh from the mines or farms, had fought like cornered dogs, but they were no match for what they faced.

"They weren’t ready," Skitz said from behind them, arms crossed, one leg limping. His tone was bitter. "We knew it, and we still brought them."

"They had to be here," Krivex murmured, though the words felt like ashes in his mouth. "You needed numbers... and still barely held out."

Seventeen guards had fallen. Eight scouts. Two wolves. Lunira cradled one of them now in her jaws, a sleek gray-furred beast with arrows buried deep in its flank.

Lumberling’s chest clenched. Jen will be sad. The little girl had raised them from pups, fed them scraps from her plate, slept curled beside them when storms rolled in.

But war didn’t care about bonds.

"It was inevitable," Skitz rasped, "The enemy had too many Knights. Too much power. Even without the True Knight... this would’ve bled us dry."

They all knew it. Jason had been the strongest enemy they had ever faced. A True Knight, armored in death, wielding techniques that crushed stone and bone alike.

"They were the best of us," Krivex whispered.

"Then we’ll bring them home," Lumberling said firmly.

Night fell as torches were lit. The bodies of their own were carefully wrapped, lined in rows. Some missing limbs. Others burned beyond recognition. Still, they would be honored.

Their enemies, meanwhile, were stripped of weapons and armor, their corpses tossed into a growing pit.

"We burn theirs here," Lumberling ordered, staring down at the twisted faces of the Earl’s soldiers.

Skitz grunted as he threw a severed arm onto the pile. "Could’ve at least died with better gear."

That earned a few grim chuckles. It was gallows humor, but it helped.

Aren and Skarn led the looting efforts, sifting through the battlefield like predators picking clean a carcass. They found quality armor among the enemy officers, steel-reinforced breastplates, saddle-ready warhorses too exhausted to run. Even the True Knight’s armor remained largely intact, bent and bloodied, but clearly forged beyond ordinary means.

"This’ll fetch a fortune," Skitz said, turning over the True Knight’s chestplate. "Or make one of us into a walking fortress."

Lumberling knelt beside the armor and laid a hand on it.

"No," he said. "We don’t sell this."

The others looked at him.

"It’s not just gear. It’s a trophy. A reminder of what we fought, and what we survived."

They nodded, understanding.

.....

Later that night.

Lumberling stood alone beside the cart.

The bodies were wrapped in coarse linen, stacked neatly, reverently. His fallen. His responsibility. His breath came slow, each inhale tainted by the scent of ash and blood that still lingered in the air.

His fingers curled against the wooden frame, knuckles whitening.

"I dragged you into this," he whispered, voice low and rough. "All of you. And I’ll carry the weight."

Silence answered.

Then, faintly, like a thread pulled taut across the edge of thought, something stirred behind him.

A presence.

Not footsteps. Not breath. But a thought, carried not by sound but sensation.

’They chose to follow you.’

The voice wasn’t spoken. It landed in his mind like a drop in still water.

"Shade? That voice, was it you?"

Lumberling turned slightly, startled, catching the faint shimmer of the spider-beast in the shadows, still and observant. Shade had never spoken before, at least, not like this.

’You didn’t force them.’

’But... don’t forget their names.’

Lumberling’s throat tightened.

"I won’t," he said quietly.

The wind whispered through the trees. In the distance, flames crackled as the enemy’s corpses burned, pyres to erase their legacy.

But here, beside this cart of wrapped forms, there was no fire. No mourning rites. Only stillness. Only silence.

....

The group arrived at the goblin village just as the sky bled orange, the sun sinking behind the treeline like a dying ember.

Drums echoed softly from within the palisade, no celebratory beat, but a solemn rhythm. A call to mourning.

Goblins and kobolds gathered in silence. The warriors laid the wrapped bodies at the center of the village square. Each one was placed gently.

Lumberling stood at the front, eyes scanning the faces of those they had brought back, not as victors, but as survivors.

Skitz lit the first torch. He held it high, letting the flame catch the wind. Then he stepped forward and lowered it to the base of the wooden pyres.

Flames licked upward slowly, devouring cloth and wood, then flesh. A wave of heat washed over the crowd, but it did nothing to thaw the weight in their chests.

Jen pushed through the circle and stopped before the last pyre, two smaller shapes lay side by side, covered in wolfskin. The moment she saw them, her knees buckled.

"No... no..." she whispered, clutching at the air as if she could pull them back.

"They didn’t even like being tied up," she sobbed, tears spilling freely now. "And now they’re... they’re just gone."

Jen pressed her face into Lunira’s warm hide, muffling her sobs. The crackling of fire swallowed the silence, and for a time, the village stood in vigil. Even the children did not speak.

.....

Later That Night

The flames had died down, leaving only ash and smoldering remains.

Lumberling sat alone on a stump at the edge of the training field. The stars blinked above like quiet witnesses.

He opened his status window. The new skill glowed faintly.

(Beginner Thundering Lunge Lv0 (1/1000))

(A burst movement technique combining footwork and explosive mana thrust. Must be channeled through a stable Knight core.)

He stood, stretching slightly. "Alright," he muttered, "Let’s see what this can do."

Drawing his spear, he crouched low, visualizing the technique. He could see it in his mind, the burst forward, the weight of mana condensing into his limbs, exploding through his muscles as he struck.

He lunged.

Nothing happened.

Just a short step forward, ordinary and sluggish. His mana wavered erratically, refusing to channel the way he remembered. It was like trying to grab water with bare hands, there was power, yes, but no grip.

"Again."

He tried once more, putting more will into it. Again, the result was the same. No surge. No thunder. Just the sting of failure.

Lumberling sighed and let his spear rest against his shoulder. He wasn’t angry, just... disappointed.

"Figures. Only True Knights can use it, and I’m not one yet."

Channeling mana to activate a skill was something only True Knights could do, and he wasn’t like Skitz, who could pull it off even in the early stages.

He sat back down and stared at his hands. They were calloused, bruised from days of war, stained with ash. Strong hands, but not enough.

’You’re close, he thought. But not yet.’

He exhaled and smiled bitterly. "Guess that’s one more thing to work for."

A rustle came from the trees behind him. Shade lingered in the shadows, silent and watchful as always. He didn’t speak, just nodded once.

Lumberling returned the nod.

Tomorrow, they would begin again.

But tonight, they remembered.