CHAPTER 168: CHAPTER 167: THE HARVESTER AND THE SHADOW

Just beyond the entrance, faint serpent murals wound across the stone, scales etched with obsessive detail, some stained dark with something too dry to be fresh.

Moments passed.

Then the ground began to tremble, dozens of lizardmen emerged from the cave, their weapons drawn, eyes gleaming in the faint morning light.

"It’s you... the monsters from that village. Why have you come here?" one of the lizardmen asked, stepping forward with a scowl.

Before he could say another word, Lumberling loosed an arrow. It sailed clean through the lizardman’s open mouth and punched out the back of his skull with a wet crunch. The creature collapsed without a sound.

The others froze in shock.

"Kill them! Tear their guts out!" one of them roared.

Dozens of lizardmen surged forward from the cave, screeching in fury.

"Shields up!" Grokk bellowed.

The captains and vice-captains, already in position, raised their heavy iron-forged shields in unison, forming a solid wall at the narrow cave entrance.

The timing was perfect.

BOOM.

The first wave of lizardmen smashed into their formation. The impact echoed like thunder within the canyon walls. Dust and pebbles rained down as the very sides of the cave cracked under the pressure of bodies slamming together.

The front line held, but only just. Shields groaned. Teeth clenched. The smell of blood was already in the air.

Lumberling stood a few paces behind them, already drawing another arrow. His breathing was calm, almost meditative, even as the chaos unfolded in front of him.

He fired.

Another lizardman fell with an arrow in its eye.

He fired again.

A third collapsed, throat pierced through. But Lumberling wasn’t just shooting, he was simultaneously channeling essence from the fallen enemies, carefully directing it into his captains. His concentration was absolute, balanced on a razor’s edge. The process required focus, precision, and constant awareness of the battlefield.

Doing two things at once, maybe even three, would’ve been impossible for him before. But now, with a mind sharpened by over a year of cultivation, meditation, and brutal training, Lumberling made it look effortless. Directing essence while fighting came to him as naturally as breathing.

Just breathe. Release. Absorb. Redirect.

Grokk, standing at the center of the front line, bore the brunt of the assault. His massive tower shield took blow after blow, claws screeching against its surface. He grunted, feet dug deep into the earth, unmoving.

Even Krivex had put down his bow for now, wielding a small shield. His usual agility translated well into footwork, ducking and parrying alongside the others.

Takkar, Skarn, and Vakk moved like a well-oiled war machine. Their massive axes rose and fell in brutal rhythm, cleaving through the lizardmen, disabling limbs, and shattering bones with surgical precision. But none of their blows were lethal.

Each strike was deliberate, meant to cripple, not kill.

Their orders were clear, break the enemy’s strength, not end their lives.

Because Lumberling needed them alive, just long enough.

Essence Devour only triggered with the final blow, and that meant every kill had to be his. His captains could only maim. The responsibility of ending it all, of harvesting every drop of strength, was his alone.

He kept channeling it back into his captains, feeding them strength, restoring their stamina, slowly mending bruises and cracked bones. The feedback loop made them fight longer, hit harder, recover faster.

A sustainable grind.

And the lizardmen? They were bleeding numbers fast.

But their attack had stirred the hornet’s nest.

The deeper chambers of the cave began to quake with movement. At first, it was a trickle, scattered growls, shifting claws, the scraping of scales against stone. But within minutes, the pressure surged.

More lizardmen poured out, row after row of them cramming through the narrow passageways in a frenzied rush to reach the surface. Dozens turned into scores. Soon, nearly a hundred of them had spilled out into the open, forming a snarling wall of flesh and fangs.

Most were common lizardmen, crude weapons in hand, their eyes bloodshot with rage.

"You desecrate the Serpent’s womb with your filth! Let your blood feed the hatchlings!"

"Heretics... become breath to Naxxiriss. Be grateful."

"Kill! Kill! Kill!" the others roared, a chorus of bloodlust. Like fanatics, they surged forward, shoving their comrades ahead in their rush to reach the front line.

The pressure mounted fast.

Their front-liners, captains and vice-captains were doing their best to stem the tide. Shields slammed against spears. Blades met flesh. But slowly, the tempo of the battle shifted.

No matter how many they struck down, more took their place.

And now the tide was turning.

"Boss! Can’t hold ’em back no more!" Gobo 2 shouted, his voice straining with effort.

He braced behind his iron-plated shield, the surface already cracked and buckling under the constant barrage of claws and clubs. A half-dozen lizardmen were battering him at once, shrieking in frenzy.

"Keep holding! You guys can do it, I’m cheering for you!" Lumberling called out from the rear, a grin tugging at his lips.

They were still laughing, still fighting, but the tension was undeniable.

Then the real threat arrived.

From the depths of the cave came a thundering growl. Eleven massive figures emerged, towering over the rest. Their frames were layered with hardened scales, muscles bulging beneath their armored hides.

Lizardman Juggernauts. Each one a beast on par with a Knight Apprentice.

And behind them, cloaked in dark hoods and radiating menace, came three even more fearsome figures.

Lizardman Champions. Equivalent to Quasi-Knight level.

All of them wore ceremonial robes, faded crimson with symbols inked in dried blood. Hooded heads lifted in unison.

"By the will of the Serpent God Naxxiriss... purge the heretics. Cleanse this defilement in sacred blood."

But before they could act, before their claws could so much as twitch, a shadow streaked across the battlefield.

A blur moved through the chaos, faster than the eye could follow.

Two Juggernauts roared in confusion, then screamed as their arms were severed at the joints. Their weapons fell with dull thuds.

A figure stepped from the shadows, twin daggers gleaming under the pale light.

Skitz.

"Don’t kill them," Lumberling’s voice rang out. "It’ll be a waste of essence."

"Easy for you to say, my Lord," Skitz muttered with a smirk, never taking his eyes off the enemy.

"Alright," Lumberling replied dryly, "just let me know if you can’t handle it."

"Heh... Even if they triple their numbers, it still wouldn’t be enough," Skitz said, baring his fangs in a grin.

Then he vanished again.

One moment he was there, the next, gone, his silhouette reappearing behind a Juggernaut just as its legs collapsed beneath it. A flick of his blade, and another was disarmed, literally.

He rampaged through their ranks like a phantom of death. Slipping through the press of bodies. Slicing through tendons, disarming champions, and leaving a trail of howling, twitching enemies in his wake.

Lumberling watched as Skitz danced through blood and scale like a phantom. It was terrifying how efficient he’d become. Every drop of strength was earned. Every weapon sharpened by necessity.

Alone, Skitz danced through a dozen elite foes like a wraith, slowing them, and bleeding them.

Then, one of the Champions snarled something in a guttural tongue, and the others began to move differently, their steps suddenly synchronized, their claws sweeping in coordinated arcs. Skitz’s smirk twitched.

"Well now... looks like someone’s learning."