Chapter 117 – The Crimson Wolf Presses On
The battlefield quieted into a heavy murmur. The open circle remained; the ground scarred with bootprints, sword trails, and cracks left by aura explosions. The wind carried the stench of iron, sweat, and damp earth. From the east, the sun climbed higher—stretching the shadows of two figures locked in deadly focus.
Fenrir gripped his sword in both hands. His breathing was heavy but measured, each exhale counted, each inhale sharpened with intent. Across from him, Baron Falkenhain rolled his wrists, steadying his massive greatsword. A gray-silver aura encased him like invisible steel plating. Fenrir's deep crimson aura, not a constant blaze but sharp flickers channeled at precise moments, rippled along his blade.
There were no more words. Only locked eyes: the defiance of youth unwilling to bow, and the pride of an old warrior who refused to break.
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Status at Start
Fenrir Eisenwald
Age: 17
Level: 19
EXP: 27,600 / 34,000
Aura: 165
Stamina: 172
Strength: 145
Cunning: 255
Charisma: 160
Mental Fortitude: 210
Skills: Aura Control Lv.4, Swordsmanship Lv.4, Leadership Lv.4, Tactical Instinct Lv.4, Passive – Legacy of Strategies
Traits: Wounds That Shape, Lord of the Marsh, Crimson Wolf's Resolve
Baron Falkenhain von Eisenmark
Age: 45
Level: 20
EXP: 39,900 / 45,000
Aura: 155
Stamina: 192
Strength: 165
Cunning: 180
Charisma: 150
Mental Fortitude: 190
Skills: Aura Control Lv.4, Greatsword Mastery Lv.4, Intimidation Lv.3
Traits: Iron Bastion, Veteran of a Hundred Battles
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Falkenhain lunged first. His greatsword came down in a crushing arc meant to split helm, skull, and spirit. Fenrir didn't meet it head-on. He dropped his left shoulder, pivoted on his back foot, and slipped just beyond the blade's path. At that instant, a brief flare of crimson aura sharpened his counter—slash! A shallow line etched across Falkenhain's waist armor.
Gasps rippled from the enemy's front ranks. The baron bled again.
Falkenhain retreated half a step, sealing the gap with practiced economy. "So, you've read my swings?" His voice was low, edged with grudging respect. "Interesting."
Fenrir's boots slid forward. Force him into wide arcs. Exploit the gaps. Repeat. His blade swept upward, then redirected into a sudden thrust. Falkenhain caught it with the flat of his sword; sparks hissed, the impact vibrating through both men's arms.
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Falkenhain feinted right, then snapped a thrust forward—rare with a blade that size. Air howled. Fenrir diverted it with a cross parry, redirecting the thrust into the mud. Crack! Soil burst beneath the redirected force.
Fenrir twisted his wrist, guiding the heavy sword's momentum downward. For an instant, Falkenhain's guard was wide open. Fenrir's strike nicked his arm, fresh blood staining steel.
"Annoying," the baron growled.
"Because you're slow," Fenrir replied coldly.
The Eisenwald soldiers roared, their morale soaring. On the other side, unease trickled through the enemy ranks.
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Your pattern: heavy → correction → heavy. You always want to end with a "finisher." That's when you're most open.
Fenrir kept his breathing short, steady. He didn't blaze his aura wildly—he used it sparingly, lighting it at the transitions. Each flicker carved deeper into Falkenhain's composure. Another shallow cut at the wrist, another graze at the hip—tiny wounds piling like nails hammered into steel.
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Falkenhain forced distance, trying to drag the duel onto firmer ground. He sought footing where his heavy swings could accelerate. But Fenrir anticipated. When the sweeping strike came low, Fenrir cut across its arc early, diverting the blow into the earth—BOOM! Mud erupted waist-high.
Fenrir's blade snapped upward in the opening. Aura flared crimson for a heartbeat, slicing into Falkenhain's thigh plate. Blood welled. The baron's knee buckled slightly.
"CRIMSON WOLF! CRIMSON WOLF!" Eisenwald's chant thundered across the battlefield.
Enemy soldiers stiffened. Doubt showed in their eyes—their baron was being forced back.
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Fenrir didn't overextend. He pressed in with relentless rhythm—precise, efficient. A thrust at the armpit joint, a slash at the shin guard, a pommel strike that rattled Falkenhain's helm. None were killing blows, but together they bound the older warrior's movements like invisible chains.
For the first time, Falkenhain's breath came heavy. He still stood tall, but the weight of attrition pressed on him.
Fenrir lowered his sword to center guard, eyes unwavering. "Steel walls don't fall to one cannon. They collapse from cracks—small, repeated, unending."
Falkenhain tilted his head, eyes narrowing. "Then I'll be the steel that hammers back."
"Try," Fenrir answered simply.
Both auras flared—crimson and silver—lighting the circle once more. The clash wasn't over, but the rhythm had shifted. The wolf was sinking his fangs deeper.
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[Status Update ]
Fenrir Eisenwald
EXP: 27,600 → 27,300 (−300)
Aura: 165 → 147 (−18)
Stamina: 172 → 150 (−22)
Baron Falkenhain
EXP: 39,900 → 38,700 (−1,200)
Aura: 155 → 135 (−20)
Stamina: 192 → 166 (−26)
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