8 – The First Battle at the Border
The night air was cold, sharp as a knife, cutting through the thin tunics of Eisenwald's farmers who now stood with tense faces. Torches flickered in the wind, their flames dancing wildly and casting shadows across the trees like watching phantoms.
At the front stood Fenrir. His body was small, but his eyes gleamed sharp, like a wolf ready to strike. In his hands, he gripped not steel, but a simple wooden training sword. Yet to him, that sword was more than wood—it was the symbol of his resolve, the oath he had sworn to his mother.
From afar came rough, hideous laughter. The torches flared brighter as shapes emerged from the forest: bandits—at least twenty of them. Muscular, scarred, clad in rags. Their weapons were rusted, but sharp enough to spill blood.
Fenrir raised his hand, signaling the villagers behind him to stay silent. They trembled, some on the verge of tears, but his unwavering gaze held them in place.
Stay calm. This isn't about reckless bravery. It's about cunning.
The first bandit in the front line stepped onto what seemed like ordinary ground. In the next instant, the earth collapsed beneath him. His scream tore through the night as he fell into a pit lined with sharp stakes.
"Traps! Watch your step!" another bandit roared.
But before they could regroup, a sharp whistle cut the air. A boulder, released from its brace on the slope, thundered down the hillside, crushing two bandits beneath its weight. Panic rippled through their ranks.
"Kill them all! Before they scatter!" shouted the bandit leader, a tall, brutal man with a scar running down his face.
Fenrir retreated, deliberately drawing them deeper into the narrow path where more traps lay in wait. Geralt and Branik, along with three other young men, crouched behind bushes, holding their breath. When the bandits entered the choke point, ropes were pulled—rough nets filled with stones crashed down on their backs. Screams and curses filled the air.
"Now!" Fenrir shouted.
The village youths charged from both sides, wielding wooden spears and farming tools. They didn't fight head-on. Instead, they struck quickly, then withdrew, exactly as Fenrir had drilled them. Their movements were clumsy, but the coordination was enough to sow greater confusion among the bandits.
Fenrir himself rushed at a bandit. The man swung a heavy cleaver down, its blade whistling toward the boy's head. Fenrir's heart pounded like a war drum, but he clenched his teeth and dodged at the last moment.
Remember. Never meet strength with strength. Exploit the openings.
He spun, kicking the man's knee. The bandit staggered, and Fenrir smashed his temple with the wooden sword. A sickening crack followed. The man collapsed, unconscious—or worse.
Fenrir's hands trembled. This was the first time he had truly struck another human being. But there was no room for hesitation. The screams and clash of weapons dragged him back into the chaos.
Geralt fought like a living wall, his massive body shielding the others. His staff broke bones and shattered arms, every blow a testament to raw power. Branik, once hesitant, now fought with terrifying fury. With an old sickle, he slashed deep into a bandit's arm, drawing a howl of pain.
But the bandits were seasoned killers. Their blades cut through makeshift defenses, and arrows hissed in the dark. One villager fell screaming, pierced through the chest.
Fenrir's gut twisted. No! I can't lose them here!
He surged forward, his voice rising above the din.
"Hold the line! Don't break formation!"
A faint shimmer rippled across his body. Not magic—aura. Fragile and thin, but real. It quickened his steps, made his strikes heavier. His wooden sword smashed against a rusted helmet, sending its wearer sprawling.
The youths stared wide-eyed.
"He's using aura...?" they whispered.
Fenrir did not slow. His eyes locked onto the bandit leader, who snarled in return, sensing the challenge. The scarred man advanced, brandishing his massive blade.
"You think a brat like you can face me?"
Steel clashed against wood with a brutal clang. Logic said Fenrir's weapon should shatter instantly—but the faint aura reinforcing his body allowed him to withstand the blow, though the impact hurled him backward. Blood dripped from his lips, yet he forced himself upright. His voice cracked but held firm.
"I'm not a child... I am Fenrir of Eisenwald! And this is our home!"
The villagers roared, their fear igniting into fury. They charged, driving the bandits back with burning resolve.
Fenrir steadied his breath, searching for an opening. The leader raised his sword for a killing strike. In that instant, Fenrir darted sideways, his small body moving faster than expected. His wooden sword slammed against the man's wrist. The great blade clattered to the ground.
The wounded leader dropped to his knees, gasping in pain, hatred burning in his eyes as he glared at the boy. Fenrir hesitated. Should I finish him?
The weight of the choice pressed down on him. Then his mother's face flashed before him—her tears, her trembling embrace.
If I falter, everyone will die.
With a cry, Fenrir struck. The wooden sword cracked as it smashed against the man's skull. The leader fell, motionless.
Silence followed. Only ragged breaths, the groans of the wounded, and the crackle of torches filled the air.
By dawn, Eisenwald still stood. The bandits scattered, their corpses left behind. The villagers bore wounds, and one life was lost, but they had won.
Fenrir stood amidst the battlefield, caked in mud and blood. His wooden sword broken in half, yet still clenched tightly in his hand.
Cedric arrived late with reinforcements. His eyes widened at the sight.
"Fenrir... you led them?"
Fenrir turned, his small face smeared with dirt, but his eyes blazing.
"Father, I promised Mother. I will protect this home. No matter what."
Elena rushed forward, tears streaming, and embraced him.
"My son... oh, my dear son..."
But Fenrir's gaze drifted beyond the forest, where shadows lingered. This battle was won, but it was only the beginning. The bandits were nothing compared to greedy lords, warring kingdoms, and the struggle for the empire.
Today I defended Eisenwald from the shadows. Tomorrow... I will face a far greater storm.
The System's voice echoed in his mind:
[Mission Complete: Northern Shadows]
Reward: +3 Strength, Skill [Tactical Planning Lv.1].
Fenrir gripped the broken shard of his sword, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
The little wolf of Eisenwald... has bared his fangs.
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