The column advanced to the rhythm of trampling feet, the clink of equipment, the labored breathing of horses. The afternoon sun now hung low on the western horizon, painting the sky in shades of deep orange that slowly bled into purple in the east, where the moon was beginning to reveal itself.
Albert rode at the vanguard, flanked by Sir Varin and Luise. Behind them, a hundred levied peasants marched in loose formation—not disciplined enough to maintain a tidy rank, but sufficiently cowed to avoid straggling. Men-at-arms guarded the flanks, their combat experience compensating for the levy's deficiencies.
"Three more hours until we reach a safe spot to make camp," Sir Varin said, gesturing toward the northeast. "There's a small hill there. A spring. A natural stone wall on one side."
Albert nodded. "We'll arrive before total darkness."
The evening air carried the scent of grass and hearth smoke from the villages they had passed. Occasionally, the call of a bird or the rustle of leaves—sounds of peace that stood in stark contrast to the purpose of their journey.
Then, without warning, his horse snorted. Its ears swiveled left.
Albert's instincts flared instantly. He didn't raise a hand or shout. Only his eyes moved rapidly, sweeping across the hillside to their left, where the shadows beneath the bushes seemed... slightly too dark.
"Sir Varin," he called softly.
The knight turned his head. Albert gave a subtle signal with his eyes. Varin followed his gaze, and then, almost immediately, his body tensed.
"Yes, I see it," Varin murmured. "Luise."
Luise was already moving before the command was fully spoken. With unhurried movements, she slowed her horse, drifted rearward, and began relaying silent signals to the men-at-arms.
The column kept marching. Nothing changed. But beneath the surface, they began to prepare.
Albert assessed the distance. Fifty yards to the hillside. A gently sloping incline, dotted with bushes and small trees. A perfect spot for an ambush if the attackers were foolish. A suicide spot if they knew what they were facing.
Because on terrain like this, the advantage belonged to whoever spotted the enemy first.
They advanced another thirty yards. Twenty.
And from behind the bushes, they emerged.
Not soldiers and not militiamen. Bandits.
Twenty men—or twenty-five, Albert counted swiftly—came sliding down the slope with wild war cries, weapons brandished. Rusted swords, axes, spiked maces. Behind them, three archers with short bows began to shoot.
The first arrow whistled past, embedding itself in the dirt a few yards ahead of the formation.
"Circle formation!" Sir Varin roared.
But Albert raised his hand. The gesture was calm, like signaling a servant.
"No," he said.
Varin stared at him in disbelief. "My Lord—"
Albert pointed at the levies. Their faces were pallid, eyes wide, hands trembling as they gripped their spears. Two were on the verge of bolting, restrained only by the presence of the men-at-arms behind them.
"Let them," Albert said. "Let them feel it."
"Feel what?"
"First blood."
He reined his horse back a few steps, creating space. Then, in a voice clear and sharp, he shouted to his troops:
"Defensive formation! Men-at-arms to the front, levies behind! Your experience—show it now!"
The command was aimed at the men-at-arms, not the levies. Those professional soldiers moved immediately, forming a semicircle in front of the still-trembling peasants.
And the bandits came.
The first clash was chaos.
Götterbaum's men-at-arms fought with discipline born of experience. Round shields rose, short swords slashed through gaps in defense. The first two bandits fell within five seconds—one with his throat laid open, one with his belly ripped apart.
But other bandits broke through the flank, slamming into the levy line.
The first peasant struck was a brown-haired youth, maybe sixteen years old. A bandit's axe caught him in the shoulder, tearing through flesh and collarbone. He fell with a piercing scream.
Others began to run.
"HOLD YOUR GROUND!" a man-at-arms bellowed, but his voice drowned in the cacophony.
Albert watched it all from horseback. His face didn't change. His eyes—green, cold—recorded every detail.
The youth crawled on the ground, trying to escape. The same bandit raised his axe to finish him.
"Luise," Albert called.
Luise moved like lightning.
Her horse shot forward, charging through a gap between two bandits. Luise's sword swept in a perfect arc, severing the bandit's arm at the elbow. The man howled, his axe falling, then Luise's head pivoted and a second slash silenced his scream forever.
"Men-at-arms, seal the left flank!" Albert shouted. "Sir Varin, clear the archers!"
Sir Varin, who had been reining himself in beside Albert, surged forward with the full power of a mounted knight. His massive warhorse charged up the slope, ignoring arrows that glanced off his armor. The first archer died beneath his sword-stroke. The second fled. The third fell, crushed by his own panicked horse.
Albert remained motionless atop his horse, watching.
The levies, who had been running, began to stop. They watched the men-at-arms fighting. They watched Luise, that young woman, kill two bandits in seconds. They watched Sir Varin single-handedly eliminate the archers.
And they began to feel ashamed.
"Dorian, you coward!" an elderly peasant shouted at the youth who had fled farthest. "Look at them! They're fighting for us!"
The youth halted, turning. His face flushed, a mixture of fear and shame.
The old peasant was already running back into the fray, spear leveled. He was untrained. His movements were clumsy. But he ran, and behind him, the other levies began to follow.
One by one, they returned.
Albert nodded slightly. That was what he had been waiting for.
Not instant victory, but a fire kindled from within. Shame transforming into courage. The direct experience that they could fight, could kill, could die—but most importantly, they could return to the line after running.
The real front lines wouldn't give them a second chance to learn this.
The battle lasted five minutes. Then ten bandits remained, then five, then two.
The last was a giant of a man.
He stood perhaps six and a half feet tall, his body a mass of walking muscle. He wielded a two-handed axe that looked as heavy as Albert himself. Two men-at-arms lay near him—one unconscious, one crawling with a broken arm.
The man swung his axe, driving three men-at-arms back. His eyes—black, feral—swept across the battlefield, then locked onto Albert.
"YOU!" he roared, his voice like rolling thunder. "YOU'RE THEIR LEADER? GET DOWN AND FIGHT ME, IF YOU DARE!"
Silence fell.
Every eye turned to Albert. The levies, the men-at-arms, Luise, even Sir Varin who had just returned from the slope. They stared at their lord, their commander, a fifteen-year-old boy on horseback.
On the battlefield, refusing a duel was a mark of weakness. A sign that a leader didn't trust his own ability. And soldiers wouldn't follow a weak leader.
Albert knew this. He had seen it in his previous life, when a commander lost his men's respect overnight.
He dismounted.
"My Lord—" Luise began, her voice anxious.
Albert raised a hand, cutting her off. He removed his green cloak, handing it to Luise. Then he drew Wurzel from his belt.
The sword felt light in his grasp. The frozen wave pattern on its blade caught the orange sunlight, shimmering like a river.
The giant man grinned. His teeth were yellow, disgusting. "Little boy," he growled. "I'll make a doll out of you."
He attacked.
It wasn't a random swing. This man knew how to wield his axe. The first strike was a vertical chop designed to split an opponent from head to groin. The power behind it was enough to drive Albert into the ground like a nail.
Albert stepped.
Just one step. To the left. The axe hurtled past, missing his shoulder by inches. The displaced air itself felt like a slap.
The giant staggered from his own momentum. He pivoted, swinging the axe in a horizontal arc.
Albert stepped again. This time forward, inside the axe's dangerous reach. His smaller frame made it easy—he ducked beneath the swing, knees nearly touching the ground, and as the axe passed over his head, he thrust.
Wurzel sank into the man's right thigh. Not deep, only a few inches. But precisely where he'd aimed. Right into the artery.
The man screamed, not in pain but in fury. He swung the axe again, wilder.
Albert retreated, evading. Blood spurted from the thigh wound, soaking the man's trousers, the ground beneath him. But the giant still stood, still attacked.
"I'LL KILL YOU!" he bellowed, his voice already growing breathless.
The blood continued flowing. An artery wound showed no mercy. Within thirty seconds, the man began to weaken. His swings slowed, lost accuracy.
Albert waited.
Another twenty seconds. The man dropped to one knee, his axe falling beside him. He stared at Albert with eyes growing dim, filled with hatred and disbelief.
"You... you never attacked," he whispered. "You just dodged."
"Yes."
"Why?"
Albert approached. Wurzel rose.
"I only needed to wait."
"Wh—"
The sword slashed. The giant man's neck opened, and his massive body crashed to the ground with a heavy thud. Blood sprayed, flecking Albert's face.
Albert stood over him, his breathing barely quickened. He gazed at the corpse for a moment, then raised his head, looking at his troops while wiping the blood from his face.
No one cheered. No one shouted. Only a heavy silence, filled with sighs of relief and the lingering adrenaline of the recent battle.
In the eyes of the levies, something had changed. They no longer saw a noble boy they needed to protect. They saw someone who could kill calmly, without rage, without fear. Someone worth following.
His hand trembled slightly as he sheathed Wurzel. He'd need a dose of feltwort tonight.
Sir Varin approached, clapping Albert on the shoulder. "That was... interesting."
Luise remained silent, but her eyes gleamed with something difficult to interpret.
Albert looked at the corpses surrounding him. Bandit corpses. Enemy corpses. The first in his new life. But not the first in his memory.
In his mind, flashes surfaced. The first face he had killed in his previous life—a middle-aged man with terrified eyes, ragged uniform, trembling hands gripping an AK-12.
Dilan had been at the front for only a month back then, and when his bullet struck that man's chest, he had vomited behind the sandbags for ten minutes, ending up mocked by his comrades.
Now, he stood over a giant man's corpse without any feeling at all. Was this progress?
He gazed at the sky. The moon hung clear in the east, accompanied by the first twinkling stars.
"We're not camping here," he said, his voice returning to normal, returning to cold. "Too many corpses. Too close to the road."
Sir Varin nodded. "Where to?"
Albert pointed northeast, toward the hill Varin had mentioned earlier. "There. Three more hours. We can make it before midnight."
"Three hours?" Luise frowned. "My Lord, the troops are exhausted. The wounded need treatment."
"That's precisely the point." Albert met her gaze. "If they're exhausted now, how will they fare on a real battlefield, where there's no safe place to stop? We train them. Including the wounded."
Luise fell silent, then nodded. Not in agreement, but in obedience.
Sir Varin smiled slightly. "She's right, Luise," he said. "War doesn't grant rest breaks."
Albert walked back to his horse. Before mounting, he paused beside Luise.
"You fought well earlier," he said. "The wounded—bind their injuries. Make sure they can march."
Luise nodded. "Yes, My Lord."
Albert mounted his horse. The column began moving again, slowly, leaving that small battlefield behind.
Before riding off completely, he turned to Sir Varin.
"Those corpses," he said. "Make sure they're not too close to the road. Don't let them rot here and contaminate the water source. But don't bury them. Let them serve as a warning."
"To whom?"
"To any other bandits who think they can ambush an armed column." Albert gazed at the giant man's corpse one last time.
Sir Varin nodded, then relayed orders to several men-at-arms.
The column marched away from the ambush site, entering the deepening night. Behind them, the bodies began to be gathered, dragged into the bushes, moved away from the road. Blood dried on the ground, slowly fading in the darkness.
Albert rode at the front, feeling the weight on his shoulders. Not the burden of armor, but another weight—the burden of lives now his responsibility. One hundred and fifteen people. One hundred and fifteen pairs of eyes staring at him with hope and fear.
"We'll make camp in three hours," he told his troops. "There, we'll count the wounded, repair equipment, and tomorrow, we continue our journey."
No one answered. Only the sound of footsteps, the clop of hooves, and the sighs of weary breath.