CHAPTER 145: CHAPTER 144: ASHES AND AWAKENINGS

The two looked for another target.

A Knight Page wielding a longsword came into view, barking commands.

Lumberling surged forward.

Steel flashed. His spear twisted past the Knight’s guard, slicing through the man’s shoulder. A second strike swept his legs from under him. The third pinned him to the ground, gurgling in pain.

"Jen, come here," Lumberling said, then activated his Essence Weave.

Jen moved in, hesitating only a second before stepping forward. The essence flowed. Her body trembled slightly, but she stood tall as the rush of strength and memory coursed through her.

Moments later.

Another Knight Page emerged from the smoke, shouting a challenge.

Lumberling met him without a word.

The fight lasted seconds. A sharp sidestep, a precise thrust to the ribs, and the man collapsed.

"Go again," he said.

Jen absorbed that one too, her breathing quickening. She clenched her fists as power surged inside her.

Lumberling watched her closely, watching her reaction. Another essence might risk backlash. So he stopped.

"That’s enough," he said, while patting her head. "You’ve done well. Rest now. Return to the safe line."

Jen gave a tight nod and retreated.

On the other side of the field, Uncle Drake was cutting down soldiers with his sword. It seemed that he was still strong as ever.

Lumberling caught up and finished the job cleanly.

He turned to Uncle Drake. "Let’s find you some Knights."

The two hunted Knights, two Knight Apprentices specializing in sword.

"All right, prepare yourself, Uncle Drake," Lumberling said.

Drake nodded with a serious expression. As the essences entered him, he stiffened for a moment, then exhaled slowly, a savage grin forming.

"Hah... now that’s a rush," Drake said, flexing his fingers as if feeling them anew. "Feels like part of me just woke up after years of sleep." He turned to Lumberling, the grin fading into something steadier. "Truly... thank you."

Lumberling gave a silent nod. For the man who stood beside him from the beginning, who watched over him when he was still lost and half-formed in this new world, this was the least he could offer.

The essence and memories Drake had absorbed would fuel his growth, helping him push past his skill wall and rise to new heights.

With his task done, he finally turned his eyes to the frontlines, where the three elves fought amidst flame and steel.

It was time to move.

....

Aurelya danced across the battlefield, her blade clashing against the twin longswords of Viscount Gantarel’s Knight, Knight Two Stage. Sparks flew as steel met steel, the clash sharp and relentless. But Aurelya was smiling.

With every strike, every riposte, she vented days of bottled frustration, the sting of bruises from Vaenyra’s ruthless training, the humiliation of being thrown to the dirt again and again. And now, finally, she could release it all.

"I hope you’re worth the trouble," she muttered, slashing upward with sudden fury.

Across the field, Thessalia stood still as stone, her eyes narrowed, her bowstring drawn. Her arrows of condensed mana flew with merciless precision, tearing chunks from the crumbling stone barriers summoned by her opponent, an earth mage clad in panicked sweat.

The man couldn’t even manage a counterattack. His entire focus was on survival, barely keeping up with Thessalia’s barrage. Earth walls shattered. Pillars crumbled. His footing was uneven, broken apart by the very ground he relied on.

Whether it was the raw superiority of elves as mages, or simply that Thessalia was on another tier entirely, it no longer mattered. The outcome was clear. He was already finished.

Vaenyra, meanwhile, stood calmly at the edge of the fray, her blue hair billowing as her presence alone pinned the final enemy mage in place. She didn’t strike. She didn’t need to.

She was simply there. Radiant, cold, unmovable.

The human mage shifted nervously, attempting to retreat, but each time he took a step, her pressure intensified. A silent warning. The ground cracked beneath his boots, and sweat streamed down his temples. He was trapped. Held in place like prey under the gaze of a hawk.

Vaenyra didn’t speak. She was merely waiting, for him.

They’d agreed beforehand. That mage was Lumberling’s.

At the edge of the carnage, Viscount Gantarel stared in stunned disbelief as his command structure fell apart. His soldiers routed. His Knights slain. His mages overwhelmed.

And worst of all, the elves.

Dozens of them, all at once. It made no sense.

Elves were rare even in the Aetherborn Empire. He’d only seen one or two during diplomatic missions, never in battle, and certainly never arrayed against him.

Why now? Why here? And why the hell were they siding with Sengolio’s enemies?

Then, Lumberling arrived.

"What took you so long?" Vaenyra asked, her voice calm but distant.

Lumberling rolled his shoulder with a casual shrug. "Hard to find prey in the middle of chaos. Most of them scattered the moment the elves arrived."

Her emerald eyes stayed fixed on him, unreadable. Curious. But she didn’t press further.

Lumberling gave her a wry grin. "Thanks for keeping him in place."

He motioned toward the trembling human mage still frozen under her oppressive presence. Without another word, he began readying his spear, checking the balance as he spun it once in his hand.

Vaenyra said nothing. As always. But the air around her seemed to shift, subtle, like a sudden drop in temperature.

The human mage stumbled back, visibly shaken. His lips moved in silent prayers. His knees threatened to give out.

Lumberling didn’t need to ask. He knew that aura.

She was annoyed.

He exhaled through his nose, half a sigh, half a chuckle. ’Great. That’s another round of bruises waiting for me during sparring.’

Still, he turned his attention toward the mage.

"He’s too scared to fight properly," Lumberling muttered, just loud enough for her to hear. "Ease up, will you? I want a real duel, not a trembling wreck."

Vaenyra didn’t answer. Her eyes lingered on him for a beat longer, unreadable as always, then she turned and walked away in silence.

He watched her retreating back, the sway of her cloak, the controlled stillness of her steps.

She’s pissed.

Lumberling knew why.

He was hiding something from her, and she could sense it. He couldn’t blame her. But some truths weren’t ready to be shared... not yet.

He inhaled and brought his spear to a ready stance, eyes narrowing on the human mage now caught between fear and fading hope.

.....

As Vaenyra vanished into the distance, the human mage hesitated, then turned and ran.

Lumberling didn’t hesitate. He broke into a sprint, spear lowered, boots pounding against the scorched earth.

The mage spun mid-stride, voice rising in panic. "Get lost!"

Flames burst to life in the mage’s hands. He hurled a fireball with both arms, desperate.

Lumberling shifted sideways, ducking low. The fireball blazed past, trailing heat across his cheek. The shockwave rolled over him, but he didn’t stop.

Too slow.

He closed the distance in an instant. The mage tried to conjure another spell, but his stance was weak. His aura was shallow, barely a proper Fourth Circle. Against Aurelya or Thessalia, he would’ve been ash in seconds. Even a regular Knight One Stage could’ve taken him down.

Lumberling didn’t waste breath on thoughts of mercy. He stepped inside the mage’s guard and thrust.

The spear slid through robes, flesh, and rib with a single clean motion.

The mage choked, eyes wide in disbelief.

He collapsed.

Lumberling’s Essence Devour skill activated.

From his chest, a thin violet thread emerged. It snaked toward the corpse and latched on.

(You have devoured the Mage’s essence. 1,500 essence absorbed. Absorbing a portion of the Mage’s memories and experience.)

Then suddenly, the world tilted.

A searing jolt struck his mind, not pain, not entirely. More like a door being forced open from the inside. Alien thoughts surged in: arcane circles drawn in fire, chants spoken in ancient dialects, glyphs that twisted mid-air before exploding into flame.

He gasped.

Memories not his own came rushing, years of study in dark towers, the bitter taste of ash from a miscast spell, the triumph of setting a distant tree ablaze with a single word. Faces flashed by, teachers, rivals, victims. Every triumph burned hot, every failure smoldered deeper. And within all that, obsession. An aching, endless hunger to be seen.

It wasn’t just technique.

It was longing.

A longing so intense it pierced through the veil of death. The mage had clawed his way up from nothing, fueled by resentment and rage, carving power out of raw fear. And now, all of that poured into Lumberling like a flood.

He staggered back, breathing hard.

Smoke curled from his mouth. His hands trembled, not from pain, but from the weight of new understanding. His mind itched with diagrams, rituals, casting forms he’d never formally learned, until now.

The mage hadn’t just been consumed.

He had been understood.

Lumberling’s breathing hitched.

And then, heat.

It began deep inside his chest, a spark blooming into a flame. It spread, licking at muscle and vein, burning from the inside out. He clutched at his sternum, staggering back a step.

"Ghh...!"

His knees hit the ground. He clenched his teeth as the heat surged, not scalding skin but boiling within.

He hadn’t expected this much power or pain.

Then, at its peak...

(You have gained the element: Fire Element Lv.0 (1/1000))

It stopped.

His breath shuddered out, smoke curling faintly from his lips. As he slowly raised his head, his eyes flickered, not with light, but with fire.

For a moment, flame danced in his irises.

Then it slowly faded.