Chapter 93 - 92: When Titans Walk

Chapter 93: Chapter 92: When Titans Walk Greyvale City, six months since Duskspire’s founding. The day began like any other, elite squads rotating through sparring drills, the faint scent of stew wafting from the manor kitchen. Then the war arrived. It began with smoke. A dark column rising over the trees to the north, followed by the thunder of drums, deep, rhythmic, unnatural. Lumberling stood at the top of their base, cloak whipping behind him as he scanned the horizon. A black tide crept through the forest. Banners bearing the crimson sigil of the Sengolio Empire fluttered above the treetops. Not a scouting party. An army. Thousands. And they were heading straight for Greyvale City. Lumberling moved. "Sound the inner alarm," he ordered, already descending the stairs. "No panic. But prep the exit routes." Skitz met him in the hall, eyes already narrowed. "Evac?" "If they breach the city, we vanish," Lumberling said. "We don’t engage, not against an army this size." He burst into the courtyard where Aren, Trask, and Gorrak were gathered. "Arm everyone. Prepare the retreat packs. Cloaks, rations, horses. We move the moment they breach." But then... The drums stopped. So did the wind. And a new sound took their place, a sharp, almost musical hum. Then a roar echoed across the city like thunder cracking against stone. From the city’s west gate, the ground erupted. Stone shattered. Fire rolled across the earth. Spears of silver light danced through the sky like thrown lances. And into that chaos, the Pentaline army descended. At its center were three glowing figures, armored in black, cloaked in violet. Knights. No, True Knights. Their presence was like a gravity well. The air bent around them. Their swords didn’t just shine, they sang, blades infused with energy that shimmered like sunlight on water. The ground split beneath their feet with every step. Each swing sent arcs of mana that tore through stone, steel, and flesh alike. Across the battlefield, Sengolio forces shattered like pottery under a hammer. Lumberling and his captains stood atop a nearby building, hidden but with clear view of the carnage. Trask exhaled slowly. "They fight like gods." "No," Skitz muttered. "Gods would show mercy." Below, one of the True Knights cleaved through a siege tower in a single upward swing. The blast from the strike exploded outward, flattening half a plaza. Limbs flew. Stone cracked. Gorrak gripped the ledge hard. "That’s not just strength. That’s mana." "They’ve crossed into Knight One stage," Aren said, voice tense. "They’ve awakened active skills." Lumberling watched in silence, jaw tight. He’d fought men and monsters alike. Quasi-Knights, beasts the size of wagons. His body had surpassed what most would consider human. But this? This was different. These weren’t warriors. They were weapons. Each clash of their blades carved trenches. Walls toppled from the shockwaves. And still, they moved with grace, like dancers choreographing destruction. He thought of his strength, his muscle, speed, endurance. Could he match one? A single, quiet thought answered him. ’No.’ ’Not yet.’ He grit his teeth. The fire that always burned in his gut roared higher. He turned to his companions. They all stood frozen, watching. Even Skitz looked unnerved. "This," Lumberling said, voice low and tight, "is the battlefield we’ll enter one day." Rogar flexed his fists. "Feels like we’re ants watching titans." "Good," Lumberling said. "Then we know how far we still have to climb." Behind them, another explosion lit the sky with violet light. And somewhere deep in his chest, something clicked, not fear, not defeat. But resolve. ..... The smoke had barely settled when the survivors began to emerge, city guards, frightened civilians, trembling merchants peeking from cracked doors. But the victors didn’t stay. The three glowing Knights, along with the armored battalions behind them, marched toward the southern gate without a word. Like a storm come and gone. Lumberling stood atop the manor wall, watching their silhouettes vanish into dusk. Their cloaks didn’t flutter. Their backs didn’t waver. "They’re not staying?" Rogar asked behind him, disbelief in his voice. "No," Skitz muttered. "They were never here for the city." Down in the square, a lieutenant in a dark violet cape shouted orders to the remaining soldiers, no names, no explanations, just orders. Within minutes, the troops fell in line behind the Knights and moved out. A merchant nearby spoke, wide-eyed and breathless. "That was General Orvak’s blade division. They say he travels with three Knight two stages at all times. Like shadows." Lumberling’s eyes narrowed. "So those were just an extension of his will." Skitz let out a low whistle. "And we’re supposed to grow strong enough to stand in the same war as that?" "We will," Lumberling replied quietly. "But not today." He turned from the wall, cloak brushing the stone. The city would rebuild. The people would whisper about gods in armor. But the Knights were already gone, moving to another front, another siege, another war. And Duskspire? Duskspire would follow... one battlefield at a time. ..... Two Months passed like smoke in wind. The Duskspire Legion became a known name, not loud, not grand, but steady. Reliable. Ruthless. They completed missions with precision. Monster packs. Bandit holdouts. Wherever others faltered, they finished. With everything they’d achieved, it was only a matter of time before the nobles came sniffing around. A Baron from a bordering province, wealthy, territorial, sent an offer wrapped in silk and arrogance. An invitation masked as a demand. The letter was brief, signed with gold leaf: "The Duskspire Legion is hereby summoned to join the Baron of Northwell as a permanent martial extension. In return: shelter, coin, and status. Refusal will be taken as insubordination." Without a second thought, Lumberling set the letter aflame. But the Baron didn’t take silence kindly. A week later, a Knight Apprentice arrived. ..... Greyvale – Duskspire Base, Courtyard The sun was low, casting long shadows across the courtyard, when the knight arrived without warning. He wore lacquered steel polished for ceremony, not war, and was flanked by eight soldiers in matching tabards. Their boots struck stone in rhythm, loud and deliberate. A show of presence more than power. He didn’t wait for invitation. He marched straight into the center of the yard, boots scuffing dust, and raised a hand. "I am Ser Garlan of Northwell," he called out, his voice cutting clean through the evening air. "By order of Baron Hadrec, this mercenary company is to be placed under noble command." From the shade of the manor’s archway, Lumberling emerged. No ceremony. No symbols. Just worn black armor and the old spear slung across his back. He didn’t walk quickly, nor with menace. He walked like someone with no intention to waste time. The knight’s eyes narrowed. "You’re the one in charge?" Lumberling didn’t answer. He stopped ten paces away. "Then let’s not drag this out," Ser Garlan continued, tone sharpening. "Swear your allegiance to the Baron and receive his banner. Or..." "Or?" Lumberling asked, his voice low. Garlan’s gauntlet flexed over the hilt of his blade. "Or be branded insubordinate. You’ll face noble consequences." From the edge of the yard, Skitz leaned against a post, arms folded. "That sounds like a fancy way to say ’bad idea.’" Lumberling glanced at the soldiers behind Garlan. Not tense. Not relaxed either. They were waiting to be told what to do. He shifted his stance and rested a hand on his spear. "Let me be clear," he said. "We don’t carry anyone’s banner. We take contracts. We do the work others won’t. If your Baron wants soldiers, he can hire them. Like everyone else." Garlan’s jaw clenched. "This is not a negotiation." "It’s not a threat either," Lumberling replied, tone even. "Because you brought the wrong kind of force." There was a beat of silence. Then Garlan charged. He drew steel mid-step, feet kicking up dirt. His sword arced high, fast, he had training, if not clarity. Lumberling didn’t draw. He stepped forward once and drove the butt of his spear into Garlan’s chest, catching him mid-swing. The breath left the knight in a broken gasp. He stumbled, slipped, and hit the ground hard. The sword clattered across stone. Lumberling walked to him, planted his foot on the chestplate, and lowered his spear just enough to touch the base of the knight’s jaw. "You came here wearing command like armor," he said. "But you forgot that armor doesn’t make you stronger. It just makes the fall louder." Garlan wheezed. "You’re making a mistake... the nobility..." "You’re not the first noble to try this," Lumberling said calmly. "But here’s the difference, others knew when to pull back before bleeding." He stepped back and lowered his weapon. "Now crawl back to your master and tell him this: If he wants blood, he’ll get it. Just not the kind he expects. And if he sends another knight, make sure it’s a real one." Behind Garlan, the line of soldiers shifted. One of them, tensed his grip on his spear. The leather creaked. His boot slid forward half a step. Another, older, placed a hand on the youth’s arm without looking. Just a gentle squeeze. A third averted his gaze entirely, jaw clenched, but said nothing. Not one moved to help their fallen commander. Because even they understood, this was a battle already lost. And the man who stood over their knight wasn’t someone you interrupted lightly. Ser Garlan staggered up, face flushed with humiliation, but said nothing more. The soldiers didn’t speak as they gathered Garlan, dragging him away like dead weight. Skitz walked beside Lumberling, arms still crossed. "You sure they won’t send a True Knight next time?" Lumberling didn’t slow his stride. "No. That was a bluff. Barons rarely have True Knights under their banner, maybe a Quasi-Knight or two at best." Skitz raised a brow. "And if that wasn’t his best? What if he’s holding back?" "He’s not," Lumberling said flatly. "If Hadrec had stronger, he would’ve sent them already. That knight wasn’t even past Knight Apprentice stage. He thought posturing would be enough." Skitz snorted. "Didn’t even last ten seconds." "Exactly," Lumberling said. "And even if Hadrec does have a True Knight, he won’t risk them on a whim. Not when we’ve got two Quasi-Knights and an elite force that’s built for war. He’d lose more than he’d gain." Skitz tilted his head, thoughtful. "So you think this was desperation?" Lumberling gave a faint nod. "It was a move made by someone trying to grab influence before it slips. We’re not the only ones being pushed by this war. Nobles are scrambling too." He glanced back once, toward the gate the knight had just limped through. "Next time, he’ll send a letter. Not a sword." ... Later That Week The days blurred into steel and sweat. Lumberling sparred endlessly, against Skitz, Aren, Rogar, even all at once. He sought challenges outside the city too: Bandits, wild monsters, anything that resisted. One morning, it happened. In the clearing behind the manor, dew still clinging to the grass, he faced Gorrak, Trask, and Skitz at once. Every muscle burned. Blood dripped from a cut over his brow. But he didn’t stop. He moved with intent. Precision. Fury. And then, it clicked. A pulse from within. His grip shifted. His stance narrowed. The spear in his hand felt weightless. Like an extension of thought. (Beginner Spearheart Doctrine has reached Level 7) (Power + 299) He stopped mid-thrust, breath catching in his throat. The skill had leveled up. His core technique. His foundation. The others paused, sensing the shift. "You felt that?" Skitz said, stepping back. Lumberling nodded slowly, lowered the spear, and looked at his calloused hands. Not just stronger. Sharper. More dangerous. His power was no longer just raw, it was refined. He had taken one more step into the world of True Knights. Name: Lumberling Race: Human Age: 23 Level: 8 Essence Point: (15,129 / 17,800) Power: 3,313 (Skills: 2,250 | Level: 1,063) Knight Stage: Knight Apprentice Active Skills Beginner Sprint Lv1 (474/1000) Beginner Hammer Shock Lv0 (799/1000) Beginner Essence Weave Lv0 (323/1000) (Derived from Essence Devour. Allows the user to bind the essence of a fallen enemy and channel it into another chosen vessel.) Passive Skills Essence Devour Beginner Spearheart Doctrine Lv7 (1/1000) Beginner Concealment Lv4 (772/1000) Beginner Swordsmanship Lv2 (973/1000) Beginner Bowmanship Lv1 (539/1000) Beginner Shieldmanship Lv0 (892/1000) Beginner Cudgel Fighting Lv0 (828/1000) Beginner Dual Wielding Axe Lv0 (367/1000) Resistances Beginner Poison Resistance Lv0 (183/1000)