After a day's run, they arrived at Sangun Village.
It was devastation.
Corpses scattered in the mud. Homes burned to cinders. The air reeked of blood and ash. But something was wrong—there were no children among the dead.
'Even a remote place like this…' Lumberling thought, heart sinking. 'So nowhere is safe.'
Eldric met them, crouched over a corpse. His eyes were hard.
"No bite marks. No claw wounds. If it were monsters, they should have eaten the bodies."
Orrin knelt, inspecting a gash. "These were killed by humans."
"Bandits… or something worse," Eldric growled. "But there are no children's bodies. We might still be able to save them."
They searched all day and into the next, but found nothing.
"Damn it, where are they?" Eldric roared.
"Calm down," Orrin said. "Anger won't bring answers. Let's regroup."
Back at the village, Lumberling resumed his training. The massacre had shaken him—but it had also hardened his resolve.
Days later, Orrin returned with grim news.
"We found them. Drake, kid—you're coming with me."
They followed him into the forest, where he explained: "It wasn't bandits. It was a group of heretics. They call themselves the Fang Eternals."
"A cult?" Lumberling asked.
"They worship a Heretic God. Rebels. Normally we'd report them to the nobles—but Eldric wants to handle it himself. Can I count on your help?"
"You don't need to ask," Drake said. "We owe you."
Lumberling nodded. "We'll help."
They arrived at an underground passage. But before they could enter, a scream echoed from within.
"That fool! Eldric rushed in alone again!" Orrin cursed. They followed without hesitation.
Inside: horror.
Children's corpses piled on an altar. Blood seeped through the stones like a living thing.
"You bastards…" Orrin's roar shook the chamber.
"Kill the intruders!" a robed priest shrieked. "They've defiled the ritual of our god—Naxxiriss!"
They came.
Dozens of them—slithering from the dark in robes stitched with shimmering scales, faces masked, blades curved like fangs.
Orrin met them with a roar, cleaving through a zealot. Lumberling danced with his spear, swift and sharp, while Drake held the rear.
(You have devoured the Cultist's essence. 5 essence absorbed. Absorbing a portion of the Cultist's memories and experiences.)
But it wasn't enough. They were outnumbered. Cultists poured in, some with jaws unhinged, others crawling like beasts.
A green flame flickered in the altar's obsidian serpent statue. A crushing presence radiated from it.
Orrin fought like a storm, but he didn't see the Knight Page closing in behind him.
"Uncle Orrin!" Lumberling dashed forward. Sprint! He intercepted the blade and clashed with the cultist.
Steel rang. The cultist fought well, but Lumberling was faster, deadlier.
(You have devoured the Knight Page's essence. 55 essence absorbed.)
But then—he felt it.
A presence too powerful to challenge. A Quasi-Knight.
He froze.
"Fall back!" Eldric's voice cut through the chaos. "Orrin! Take them and go!"
"But—"
"Go! Now!"
Orrin hesitated, then rallied. They slashed through the retreat path. Drake limped. Behind them, cultists surged, chanting:
"Naxxiriss… Naxxiriss…"
At the exit, Orrin looked back.
The fanatics lifted the children's bodies toward the altar. Blood dripped into the obsidian serpent's open jaws.
Eldric emerged some time later—exhausted but alive.
They had failed.
Days passed. Chief Eldric said the nobles had dispatched Knights to cleanse the cult. There was nothing left for them to do.
Lumberling walked near the rear of the procession, boots crunching over dry pine needles, the sound too loud in the silence. Ahead, Chief Eldric led them—shoulders squared, ceremonial axe across his back. Not for battle. For ritual. But even at a distance, the old man's posture looked heavier than before, as if the blade bore memories now.
The villagers followed in clusters, carrying the dead on makeshift stretchers wrapped in linen.
The Sangun appeared over the next rise—a hill ringed with standing stones, half-swallowed by moss and time. A place for the honored dead. Now a resting ground for children, mothers, and farmers who never held blades..
Lumberling swallowed the thought. He kept his eyes forward.
Berrin's face had gone blank, as if grief had scrubbed him hollow. Mirella limped beside him, her sleeve stiff with dried blood, refusing help from anyone. Old Tanner walked empty-handed, but carried more sorrow than all of them combined. His family had been among the first to die. Now he looked like a man made of smoke—there, but already fading.
No one spoke.
Above them, the sky had turned the color of old steel.
Eldric raised a hand when the trail reached the top of the hill. The villagers slowed. Some knelt. Others stood still, holding the stretchers until their arms trembled.
There were no priests. No chants or incense. Just the names of the dead, spoken one by one like soft nails into wood.
Lumberling helped lower a stretcher—small, too light. A boy. He couldn't remember his name.
His hands trembled.
He'd devoured lives before—bandits, knights, cultists. Even now, the essence he'd stolen still churned inside him.
But today, there was nothing to take. No victory. No reward.
Only weight.
When the last grave was filled, Eldric knelt beside it. He placed a stone marker—rough, unpolished, but clearly carved with care. His hands lingered on it, as if reluctant to let go. Then his head bowed.
And slowly, quietly, the old chief wept.
No one tried to comfort him. No one dared.
Lumberling felt the stillness settle around them like snow. Heavy. Cold. Suffocating.
No one spoke of revenge. Not yet. Grief still held their tongues. But in that silence, something stirred—low and slow, like coals hidden beneath ash.
Not fury.
Resolve.
And as Lumberling stared at the graves, he felt it too—not as a warrior or a devourer—but as a man trying to live in a world that had no room for peace.
This world didn't want survivors. It made monsters or corpses.
He would not become the latter.
They would grieve.
They would remember.
And when the time came, they would not beg for justice.
They would make it.
Lumberling continued training with renowned resolve.
But frustration grew with every swing.
A month passed. His Swordsmanship remained stuck at Level 2. His Shieldmanship and Sprint, the same. He thought his Essence Devour would solve it, but it only cemented his doubt. When he killed the cultists, he had received their essence, but his experience point didn't budge a single point.
(Beginner Swordsmanship Lv2 (0 / 1000))
"What am I missing?" he whispered. "Why won't it increase?"
He trained harder. He followed every technique. Still—nothing.
One day, his sword slipped from trembling fingers. He dropped to his knees. Exhausted. Angry. Helpless.
"Lumberling! There you are."
He turned. Eldric stood nearby, frowning.
"I've been calling you. It's past lunch."
"Sorry… I was thinking."
"You look frustrated."
"I've been stuck," Lumberling admitted. "No matter what I do, I'm not progressing. It's like hitting a wall."
Eldric chuckled. "You've been practicing a while, haven't you?"
The laughter stung.
"A Knight's path has never been easy," Eldric said. "Look at me. Orrin. Drake. We've trained for decades. And yet—we're still here."
"But I—" He stopped. He'd been about to say he was different. Special.
And in that moment, he understood.
'Had I grown arrogant?'
Rapid progress had made him desire for more. Essence Devour gave him a short cut, stealing what others possess rather than earning it.
"You've trained hard," Eldric said gently. "That shows. But you're treating the sword like a test. Like discipline alone will solve it."
"Isn't discipline what makes a Knight?"
"No. Discipline makes a soldier. Will makes a Knight. And will doesn't live in rules. It lives in how you rise after breaking them."
He took Lumberling's sword and swung it once—clean, natural.
"You want to improve? Stop performing. Start listening."
"To what?"
"To the fight. To the sword. To yourself. Stop trying to prove you're worthy—and choose to be."
Lumberling took the sword back. His hands still shook.
Then he remembered.
"You've never used a skill manual, have you?" Eldric asked, watching him.
"A skill manual…" The memory hit like a slap. Uncle Drake's words. The third condition—sharpening one's skill, through manuals passed down by ancestors.
Skill manuals might hold the key to surpass his walls, they were manuals passed down by Knights that described ways to transcend physical limits.
'Why did I forget?' To train his skills, he had been relying on devoured memories. His own understanding and other's guidance.
"Chief Eldric…"
"Hm?"
"Thank you. Truly."
He bowed deeply.
He considered asking for their manual, but knew better. Manuals were precious—family heirlooms. Even now, it would be disrespectful to ask.
Still, he had options. He had gold and items he could sell. And in cities, there were merchants. Booksellers. Adventurers.
Skill manuals had to exist.
He would find one.
But first—he would hone his Spearmanship to its limit.
He had a plan now.
And that was enough.
One morning, as he set out, Eldric stopped him again.
"Lumberling. Off to train?"
"Yes, Chief. Just like usual."
"Be careful. There's word of monsters nearby. Some tribes to the north—one village was attacked recently."
Lumberling's eyes lit up. "Monsters? What kind?"
"Orcs, mostly. Hunters spotted a group about two weeks' travel from here. Probably a dozen or more."
Lumberling leaned in. "Do you know how strong they are? Any evolved types?"
Eldric narrowed his eyes. "Why so curious? Planning to hunt them?"
"I need them—for something important."
"You've got guts, I'll give you that. But don't get reckless. Monsters are dangerous for a reason."
'Not guts,' Lumberling thought. 'Just desperation... and purpose.'
But he only nodded. The forest called—and beyond it, answers,