Two days later, Eryndor departed for the front lines. Soldiers of the kingdom, scouts, and monster hunters were already stationed in the borderlands. He would spend the next two years fighting in different regions, learning the ways of war, the strengths and weaknesses of monsters, and the political realities that often complicated even a straightforward battle.
First region: Rolling plains with wolf-lion packs and migrating void-born herds. Strategy was key; brute force alone was inefficient. Second region: Mountain ranges inhabited by armored serpents and chimeric predators. Combat required climbing, endurance, and careful observation. Third region: Coastal cliffs with tidal beasts and primordial remnants. Weather, terrain, and timing became as deadly as any opponent.
Eryndor also began experimenting with new abilities: minor area control with lightning, rapid reflex augmentation, and energy-infused strikes that could penetrate armor previously impervious to him.
Along the way, he observed the origins of monster species, noting mutations from elemental exposure, hybridization from void influence, and adaptations to human hunting. He realized the scale of threats was far larger than the city, and the level of coordination among human armies was often insufficient.
The city gates faded behind him, replaced by rolling plains stretching as far as the eye could see. Dust rose from the dirt roads, and the wind carried the scent of iron, grass, and something sharper—something primal that Eryndor immediately recognized.
This was no ordinary training ground. This was the frontier. The first line against monsters that had tormented humanity for centuries.
Soldiers moved in disciplined formations, their armor clanking faintly, faces set with exhaustion and determination. Scouts returned from patrols, reporting sightings of wolf-lions and void-born herds moving along the northern ridges. Smoke from small skirmishes still lingered in the distance, curling above shattered trees.
Eryndor walked beside his father briefly, taking in the scope of the operation.
"Your first two years will not be easy," his father said, voice low. "You will face creatures you cannot kill with raw strength alone. You will need strategy, observation, and endurance. And you will grow beyond what you imagine."
Eryndor nodded, gripping the strap of his satchel. Inside were his essentials—training tools, scrolls of combat techniques, and a few experimental devices for energy control. His storm hummed faintly in response, almost eager, sensing the raw chaos ahead.
Arrival at the Northern Plains:
The first encampment was a cluster of wooden palisades, watchtowers, and tents, barely enough to fend off the larger packs. Scouts reported constant movement—wolf-lions, creatures with the strength of ten men, razor claws, and intelligence that made them cunning hunters.
Eryndor spent the first few days learning the patrol routes, observing the behavior of the beasts, and practicing containment techniques.
Hand-to-hand combat drills with soldiers: Even seasoned warriors were no match for his speed and lightning-infused strikes. Eryndor had to scale his attacks down to avoid obliterating his sparring partners. Weapon integration: He experimented with channeling lightning through short swords and spears, creating arcs of energy that enhanced the weapons' reach and lethality. Observation: He watched wolf-lions hunt, learning patterns, territory marking, and herd dynamics. Not all encounters would be direct combat; sometimes survival depended on prediction and patience.
On the fifth day, scouts reported a pack moving toward the eastern ridges. They were larger than any documented wolf-lions in the region. Eryndor volunteered immediately.
The plain stretched wide, the grass swaying in the wind as he crouched behind a ridge. Dozens of the creatures emerged—muscular, fanged, with obsidian-like claws glinting in the sun. A low growl rippled across the pack. The alpha, massive and scarred, held itself apart, its eyes intelligent, calculating.
Eryndor struck first. Lightning arced along his fists, a flash of pure energy that sent the nearest wolf-lion flying into the dirt. Others scattered briefly, then regrouped with terrifying coordination.
Kael would have loved this moment, he thought. The dance of attack and counter, the balance of speed and precision, strategy and raw power.
The fight was a blur of motion:
A wolf-lion lunged. Eryndor ducked, driving a palm into its chest, lightning flaring. Another circled from behind. He spun, elbowing it into the alpha mid-leap. Energy arcs fanned out, striking three more attackers simultaneously, forcing them back. The alpha roared, shaking the ground, and charged. Eryndor met it head-on, twisting midair, letting a bolt of lightning crack through the beast's torso, staggering it without killing—he wasn't here to slaughter yet, just to assess.
By the end of the day, the pack had been scattered, and Eryndor had logged every observation: movement speed, attack patterns, communication signals, and territorial instincts.
Night fell across the northern plains. Fires crackled in the encampment, casting orange light on the faces of tired soldiers. Eryndor sat beside one of the scouts, mending his gloves.
"First real fight," the scout said, passing him a small flask of water. "You did what no one else could. You… fought like lightning."
Eryndor smiled faintly, taking the flask. "Not a fight yet. Just… practice. There's more coming."
He stood, looking up at the stars. The northern lights were faint, flickering across the horizon. He felt the storm in his veins, pulsing with anticipation. Two years stretched ahead, and already he knew: survival alone would not be enough. He would have to learn, adapt, and become something new.
And he would.