Chapter 108 - 107: Heart of the Forest

Chapter 108: Chapter 107: Heart of the Forest The air was thick with smoke and the copper tang of blood. Bodies lay strewn across the forest floor, goblins and knights alike. Fire licked the edges of the trees, casting the battlefield in flickering amber. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled, and then was silenced. And through the chaos, he came. A man in polished silver mail, streaked with red, spear in hand and bloodlust in his eyes. Jason Ravenshade. A True Knight. He strode through the chaos like it parted for him, toward the heart of the battlefield. Toward the one he had come for. "Finally," Jason said, voice calm and venomous. "You show yourself, coward." He stopped a few paces ahead of the burning log wall, eyes narrowing at the figure approaching him. Lumberling didn’t reply. He stepped forward without fanfare, spear in hand, blood dripping down his shoulder. His cloak had been torn. Smoke clung to his skin like a curse. But his eyes were steady. No words were needed. Then the spears danced. A clash of metal sharp enough to shake the ground. Jason struck first, fast. Faster than any opponent Lumberling had ever faced. His spear lashed out in a clean, elegant arc, the wind whistling as it passed inches from Lumberling’s throat. Parry. Lumberling barely caught it. The force behind the strike jarred his arms numb. Jason didn’t pause. Another thrust. Then a feint. Then a brutal sweep meant to take his legs. ’He’s faster than me. Stronger. Far more seasoned.’ Lumberling gritted his teeth and pivoted, taking a glancing blow to the ribs, pain flashing white-hot. He couldn’t fight like this, not here. There were too many allies around. One misstep, and Jason would cleave through his soldiers. He broke away, sprinting into the trees. Jason followed with a low chuckle. "Run. I enjoy the chase." Deeper in the Woods, Moments Later The clearing was empty. Silent, save for the crackle of burning roots. Here, they could fight without interruption. Jason circled him, relaxed. Confident. "You don’t belong here," he said. "Whatever you are. You’re not Duskpire. You’re not knight. You’re a pretender wearing a corpse’s skin." Lumberling didn’t answer. He hurled a smoke bomb, then darted left, only to find Jason already there, spear lashing through the mist. A screech of steel. Jason’s blade cut sparks off Lumberling’s, nearly disarming him again. Lumberling dropped a detonation bomb, flung wide, but Jason leapt back like a dancer, his eyes burning with annoyance. Then, clang, a strike dislodged Lumberling’s spear, sending it skittering across the dirt. Jason smiled. "Is that it?" But Lumberling stepped forward anyway. He shifted into a stance taught by Fei, fluid and unarmed, body low, hands loose and flickering. He struck. Jason caught his wrist, twisted, and threw him hard against a tree trunk. "All these little stunts, did you really think they’d work on me?" Crack. The bark splintered. Lumberling’s knees wobbled. Blood filled his mouth, thick and bitter. He saw Jason’s blurred form approaching, spear in hand, calm as death. Then, unbidden, a face. Jen, clinging to his side, grumbling about breakfast. The way she smiled when she thought no one saw. The goblins arguing over stew. Skitz yelling at Gobo2 to stop licking the books. The village he had built. The lives they trusted him with. If he died here, it all burned with him. He couldn’t win like this. Not by mimicking others. Not by chasing shadows. He rose again. His hand closed around the fallen spear. His breathing slowed. And he let go. Not of the fight. Of control. Spearheart Doctrine. His stance changed, wild, yet refined. A blend of gnoll ferocity, wolf pack fluidity, goblin cunning, and lizardman unpredictability. Each strike was a different rhythm. Each parry a new dialect of war. Jason faltered. Just once. A shallow cut across the thigh. A grazing thrust to the shoulder. Lumberling pressed harder, switching styles with every breath, never giving Jason a pattern to follow. For a time... he matched him. Jason growled, eyes narrowing. Then he adapted. He began to counter the gnoll’s charge with a low sweep, the wolf’s rhythm with calm precision, the lizardman’s spiral with a sudden stop. He was reading Lumberling like a book. Every instinct. Every motion. ’He’s learning me... too fast.’ Lumberling staggered back, lungs heaving. His spear was heavier now. Slower. Jason walked toward him, breathing evenly. "You’re not bad," he said. "But you’re not ready." ..... Meanwhile, Nearby Battlefield Skitz had just run a Quasi-Knight through the stomach when he spotted him, his Lord, alone in the trees. Bleeding. Falling back. Losing. Skitz’s chest tightened. But his opponent still stood. The Quasi-Knight, wounded, but alive. And then... Thud. A pair of axes cleaved through the soldier’s head, splitting helmet and skull alike. Grokk stood there, chest heaving, armor drenched in gore. "I’ll take care of that Knight," he grunted. "Go." Skitz hesitated. "You sure?" "Don’t worry about me," Grokk said, voice flat. "Just go. He needs you." A breath. Then Skitz nodded, and vanished into the trees. ..... Back in the Clearing Jason sneered, "All this, for an elf who doesn’t even know your name?" Lumberling didn’t answer. But he felt her presence, distant, asleep, unaware of the war bought for her silence. Jason raised his spear for the finishing blow. "You lasted longer than I thought. A shame it ends now." He never saw the dagger flying in from the smoke. It struck his side, not deep, but sharp enough to twist his posture. Skitz burst through the fog, twin daggers flashing. Lumberling’s eyes narrowed as he caught his breath. A second wind. A second chance. He gripped his spear tighter. Jason turned slowly, now facing two opponents. His expression cracked for the first time, not fear. Annoyance. "...So. You brought your dog." Skitz grinned, blood dripping from his cheek. "Funny. I was about to say the same." ..... The ground shook with every step. Lumberling’s army, weary and bloodied, was being pushed back. The air reeked of ash and blood. Screams echoed between the trees as goblins, kobolds, and wolves fought desperately to hold the line. But they were faltering. The Earl’s soldiers were no mere militia, they were his finest. Elite soldiers, hardened veterans, disciplined killers who advanced with ruthless precision. For every strike the defenders landed, three came in return. Shield lines broke. Gaps formed. Even the elite squads were forced to retreat, step by step. Gorrak collapsed to one knee, blood running from his side. Grokk’s axes drooped, breath ragged as he stared down a towering Quasi-Knight. Even Shade stumbled, ichor dripping from cracked plates in his chitin, legs trembling under the weight of countless wounds. The line was crumbling. Then... A horn cut through the storm. Low, resonant, and growing louder with every second. A single, sharp call to war. Heads turned. Hearts skipped. And then they appeared. From the northern ridge, the treeline exploded with motion. Captain Krivex led the charge, not the wiry goblin of old, but a towering Hobgoblin Warlord clad in blood-red leather armor. Leaner, sharper, with a massive bow in one hand, he moved like a war chant given form. "Form the line," Krivex snarled. "No one touches the Heart." Beside him sprinted Gobo1 and Gobo2, both grinning like lunatics, now towering Hobgoblin Warlords, their massive warblades nearly as tall as they were. "Leave me the spine!" Gobo1 howled as they closed in on the nearest Quasi-Knight. "Not if I take his head first," Gobo2 barked, tongue lolling. "Idiots," Krivex muttered. But he smirked. Just a little. They dove into the chaos like wolves unleashed. Gobo1 roared and collided with the Quasi-Knight fighting Shade, his sword cleaving into the enemy’s side. Gobo2 followed with a shield charge that toppled a Knight Apprentice. Shade let out a shrill hiss of victory and lunged back into the fight, striking with renewed strength. Elsewhere... Captain Takkar and Vakk, now powerful Kobold Warshapers, arrived just in time. Grokk, swaying, bloodied, raised his axes for one final blow, only for Takkar to block the incoming strike for him. "Rest, brother," Takkar growled. "Let us finish this." Grokk coughed blood and nodded. Vakk snarled and struck low, breaking the enemy’s leg with his axe. Takkar finished the Quasi-Knight with a precise blow to the throat. They roared as one, feral and victorious. ..... On the far left flank, Vice-Captain Vrak, now a Knight Page-level Hobgoblin Warrior, rallied the hunter units. Dozens of archers emerged from the brush behind him, hobgoblins and elite kobolds, their eyes sharp, hands steady. They fired as one. Volley after volley of arrows rained down, picking off the advancing soldiers with chilling accuracy. Vice-Captain Zarn, lean and scarred, appeared beside Vrak, hurling spears into clustered formations with pinpoint precision. The forest itself seemed to rise against the invaders. .... A deep rumble approached from the east. Then, with a thunderous roar, the boar cavalry broke through the undergrowth. Kobolds astride monstrous tusked beasts barreled into the Earl’s infantry, trampling through shields and skewering pikemen like wheat beneath a scythe. At their head, Captain Skarn, a massive Kobold Warshaper, bellowed in fury, his glaive sweeping wide as his mount crushed a knight beneath its hooves. "TO THE BLOOD!" he roared, voice echoing over the battlefield. The Earl’s soldiers buckled. Morale fractured. What had been a disciplined push became a scattered retreat. Now it was the Pentaline army that staggered. Now it was they who were outnumbered, surrounded, demoralized. The forest had answered. Lumberling’s army, battered but not broken, surged behind the reinforcements. Trask, Rogar, and Karnark rejoined the charge. Aren, still bleeding, fought beside Krivex, shouting orders between clashes of steel. Orrin and Uncle Drake held the right flank, their weapons slick with blood. And as the enemy line began to collapse, Shade, victorious and drenched in gore, turned his massive body toward the forest. He ran. Toward the Heart He sprinted through fire and smoke, eight legs pounding the ground like drums of war. Through the haze, he saw it. Lumberling, cornered by Jason Ravenshade, bloodied and gasping, desperately holding back a foe beyond any he’d ever faced. Skitz fought beside him, but it wasn’t enough. Shade let out a shriek, a piercing, soul-rattling cry that echoed across the battlefield. Then he charged, leaping over corpses and broken spears, obsidian limbs tearing across the blood-soaked earth. The webcaller was coming.