Lumberling stood inside the weapons cache—an improvised storage the soldiers had scavenged from fallen allies and enemies. He stared at the weapons laid before him, contemplating which one to master first.
"I already have Beginner Spearmanship and Swordsmanship. I prefer the bow, but I don't have the skill for it yet. I could try to develop it from scratch, but that'll take too long. Sprint is useful, sure, but I need to focus on combat first."
'A spear and a sword, then?'
He pondered it for a moment, then grinned.
"Why choose? I'll master them all. With Essence Devour, I've got an edge—I'll surpass any other Knight Page if I level up every skill."
Having made up his mind, he also began drafting a plan to make better use of his Devour ability.
"I'll train with the spear today and the sword tomorrow."
At a secluded clearing deep in the forest, Lumberling mimicked the spearman he had once fought. That bastard had been quick and precise—his posture lethal. Lumberling recalled his stance and drove his spear forward with all his might.
(Beginner Spearmanship Lv0 – 25 + 1 / 1000)
A prompt echoed in his mind after he successfully copied the stance.
"Nice. Let's keep going."
After a full day of practice, he finally checked his status window:
Name: Lumberling
Race: Human
Age: 17
Level: 1
Essence Points: 55 / 340
Power: 59
Knight Stage: Unranked
Active Skills:
Beginner Sprint Lv0 (3 / 1000)
(Grants a burst of lightning-fast speed. Consumes a large amount of stamina.)
Passive Skills:
Essence Devour
(Automatically devours the essence of those you kill. Absorbs a portion of their special experiences and memories.)
Beginner Swordsmanship Lv0 (2 / 1000)
Beginner Spearmanship Lv0 (27 / 1000)
"All that work for just two points? At this rate, it might take a year and a half to level up. Am I untalented?" he muttered bitterly.
'Maybe that was why Uncle Drake once said that few ever succeed in walking the path of knighthood.'
He noted some changes to his status. The essence point requirement had doubled since the last time—he had no clue how it was calculated, so he left that mystery alone for now.
Then there was the "Knight Stage," which only appeared after he devoured a Knight Page. A thought struck him—one that filled him with excitement.
"What happens if I devour other species with different powers? Will I inherit their abilities?"
Knighthood was only one of the many power systems in this world. Uncle Drake once mentioned that the knighthood path was created during ancient times as a means of survival. Against what, exactly, Lumberling still didn't know. But every knight was taught this history.
If there were other paths, Lumberling planned to discover and test them all.
Three quiet days passed. The soldiers lay low, waiting for reinforcements. Lumberling continued practicing his sword and spear, even sparring occasionally with Uncle Drake.
(Beginner Swordsmanship Lv0 – 5 / 1000)
(Beginner Spearmanship Lv0 – 32 / 1000)
"Still too slow. I need more essence."
Six soldiers were scouting near the Ryazan Forest.
"Why's that kid with us?" one of them grumbled, eyeing Lumberling.
"That's Lumberling," another replied. "Decurion Rex said he could tag along. Told us to teach him."
"Tch. Why are we babysitting? Jack, he's your responsibility."
Jack scowled but said nothing. Lumberling had overheard them but kept his silence. He had requested to join the scouting party, claiming to be a hunter's son and offering to catch game for the unit. A lie, of course—but a necessary one.
His real goal was to learn survival skills and familiarize himself with the terrain. He used his knife to carve rudimentary maps into bark, noting landmarks and escape routes. He had nothing else to write with—improvisation was his ally.
"Halt," the lead scout ordered. "From here, we split up. Don't go deeper into the woods. If you see enemies, report immediately. Be careful."
Lumberling absorbed everything—hunting, trap-making, camouflage, track-spotting, and more. Each night, he found time to continue training.
On the sixth day, Lumberling crouched behind tall grass, his green fur coat and fleece hat blending into the surroundings. He stank, was malnourished, but remained focused. Food was scarce.
Then they heard movement.
From the west came Sengolio soldiers and carriages—about 50 men guarding supplies.
"We've found their route," the scouts realized.
"Lumberling, report this to the Decurions!"
"Yes, sir."
In the meeting room, Decurions debated.
"This is our chance! We can seize those supplies—our men are starving!"
"But what if the enemy sends more? They'll find our camp!"
"Are you afraid?"
"This isn't fear—it's caution!"
"Then shut up and fight!"
"Enough!" the Centurion silenced them all. "We'll be careful not to expose our position. We attack at dawn."
At dawn, Pentaline soldiers lay in ambush. Lumberling's squad had the honor of striking first.
An arrow flew—straight into an enemy's skull.
(You have devoured the Infantry Soldier's essence. 5 Essence absorbed. Absorbing a portion of the Infantry Soldier's memories and experience.)
The battle erupted. Lumberling fought furiously, already on his fourth kill. Then he spotted an enemy Decurion.
"I can't beat him head-on... but I don't need to. Just wait. He'll tire."
Using Sprint, he darted around, cutting down soldiers.
By his seventh kill, enemy numbers had halved. The Decurion still stood, injured but fierce, fighting their own Decurion and surrounded by twenty men.
'Now was the time.'
Lumberling dashed in from behind, spear aimed for the kill.
But the enemy sensed it, dodging and countering. The spear slashed his left shoulder—hot pain bloomed.
He gritted his teeth, activated Sprint, and withdrew.
"Careless… No. He's just that strong."
Still, he pressed on. Their own Decurion severed the enemy's leg—and Lumberling struck.
The head rolled.
(You have devoured the Knight Page's essence. 55 Essence absorbed. Absorbing a portion of the Knight Page's memories and experience.)
(Beginner Spearmanship Lv0 – 308 / 1000)
Essence Points: 155 / 340
He gasped, eyes wide. "So... normal soldiers give 2–3 skill EXP, 5–20 essence. Decurions and Knight Pages? 250 skill EXP and 55 essence."
The battle ended. Enemy soldiers lay dead. The stolen carriages were theirs.
"Soldiers, we've won!"
"YEAH!!!"
"Feast tonight!"
"YAHOO!!"
That evening, Lumberling sat by the fire, reflecting. The Decurion he killed was still far stronger than him. He didn't know what level he'd need to reach to match that power.
Days passed. More soldiers arrived, worsening food rations. Lumberling trained, scouted, and focused on survival.
"Where to today, Sir Jack?" he asked the grumpy scout.
"There's a fish trap by the southwest river. Let's check it. Grab the baskets."
Jack was older, wiry, with a goatee—and completely unlike Uncle Drake. He barked orders but rarely taught. Still, Lumberling learned through observation.
He had even woven his own rattan basket by copying Jack. He memorized which plants were edible, how to set traps, hide tracks, and navigate.
Sometimes Jack made him give directions—was it a teaching method or just laziness?
At the river, Lumberling washed himself. He couldn't stand his own stench. They harvested large fish, carried them back, and returned to camp.
After scouting, he resumed combat training, this time integrating Sprint into his fighting style.
Two weeks passed.
Lumberling awoke in his "tent"—a makeshift frame of wood and leaves. It kept mosquitoes out, though crawling insects still visited. Compared to others sleeping in the open, it was luxury.
Food remained scarce. New soldiers arrived constantly. The game dwindled. Unless they ventured deeper—and risked discovery—things would get worse.
He unwrapped a dried piece of meat he had hidden for himself. Everyone turned in their catches, but like Jack—who took generous portions—he kept a modest share.
Armed with bow, spear, sword, and a hidden dagger, he walked to the river.
Hygiene, to him, meant survival. Infections were fatal out here. Many had died from untreated wounds. Leaders gave mercy-kills when necessary.
Back at camp, food was distributed.
'A single strip of jerky.'
"I'm starving," muttered someone nearby.
Lumberling couldn't blame them.
He saved his share of the tiny jerky by wrapping it in a leaf and slipping it into his pouch. Eating it now would barely change anything, but saving it might buy him strength later when it mattered most. Lumberling sat by the edge of the camp, sharpening his dagger with a rough stone.
"I'm hungry…"
"I feel like I'm chewing leather."
"Is this really all we have left?"
Whispers and mutters filled the air like gnats—annoying, ever-present, and dangerous in what they implied: discontent.
Lumberling stayed quiet, ears open. Desperate soldiers sometimes snapped. One guy had tried to steal from a fellow soldier's pack two nights ago and ended up with a shattered jaw. They called it discipline, but Lumberling knew it was survival—order maintained through fear.
That evening, Uncle Drake returned from a patrol. His cloak was soaked with rain and blood—not his. The man looked like a weathered beast, dangerous yet steady.
"Uncle Drake," Lumberling said, standing up as the older man approached.
Drake gave him a nod and tossed him a bundled piece of cloth. Lumberling caught it and unwrapped it to find half a loaf of black bread and a small smoked fish.
"Eat," Drake muttered. "You'll need it. We're moving out soon."
Lumberling blinked. "Are reinforcements finally coming?"
Drake grunted. "No. Orders came from the Centurion. We can't stay here anymore. Scouts say the Sengolio are moving. We'll march before dawn. Light and fast."
Lumberling's mind worked quickly. If they were leaving, it meant the location was compromised—or about to be. Either the supply raid had drawn too much attention, or worse, someone talked. Either way, it meant one thing: danger.
"Am I going with the scouts?" he asked.
Drake looked at him, eyes narrowing slightly. "You've learned enough not to die immediately. That's more than most."
Lumberling took that as a yes.
That night, he didn't train. Instead, he sat in silence near the fire, slowly eating the food Drake had given him, his thoughts sharp as the dagger at his hip. His body ached, his wound on the shoulder throbbed whenever he moved, and his stomach felt like a hollow pit. But even then, a flicker of anticipation danced within him.
A march meant battle. And battle meant chances—opportunities to Devour and grow.
He checked his status one last time before sleep:
Name: Lumberling
Race: Human
Age: 17
Level: 1
Essence Points: (155/340)
Power: 85
Knight Stage: Unranked
Active Skills:
Beginner Sprint Lv0 (193/1000)
(Grants a momentary burst of lightning-fast speed. Consumes a large amount of stamina.)
Passive Skills:
Essence Devour
(Automatically devours the essence of those you kill. Absorbs a portion of their special experiences and memories.)
Beginner Swordsmanship Lv0 (53/1000)
Beginner Spearmanship Lv0 (336/1000)
Progress was slow, painfully so. But each Devour brought something new—an instinct, a motion, a muscle memory. Sometimes it was subtle: a shift in footwork, a flick of the wrist, the angle of a parry. Other times, it was overwhelming, like a wave of violent purpose crashing into him.
Still, he needed more. More essence. More knowledge. More everything.
He lay under his makeshift tent, feeling the wind slip through gaps in the leaves, thinking about the future. Not the grand future—titles or riches—but the next fight, the next kill, the next step forward.
Tomorrow, they march.
And for Lumberling, it meant another chance to climb. To survive.
And to devour.